


His Blazing Lodestar

by Ldigo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (though it’s mutual), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Apathetic Harry Potter, Bigotry & Prejudice, Dark Harry Potter, Dark Magic, Harry is a Black, M/M, Magical Theory (Harry Potter), Necromancer Harry Potter, Obsessive Tom Riddle, Possessive Behavior, Psychopaths In Love, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Harry Potter, Riddle at Hogwarts Era, Sane Tom Riddle, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:40:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25202590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ldigo/pseuds/Ldigo
Summary: Tom Riddle, a lonely orphan and despised mudblood of Slytherin, meets reclusive Achernar Black and immediately feels drawn to the other boy. Will the fateful encounter change the course of history as we know it, or will he become even more terrible and great instead?
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 82
Kudos: 556





	1. Strangers on a Train

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Riddle and The Warning Star](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6301210) by [teecup_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/teecup_angel/pseuds/teecup_angel). 



> Hey everyone!  
> Before we begin, I’d like to emphasize several ground points first.  
> 1\. I borrowed amazing teecup_angel’s idea of Harry’s soul being thrown into the past, though in this case the mechanics differ. He won’t ever know it (probably), but he’d exchanged the Hallows and his Mastery over them for this opportunity.  
> 2\. He is a pureblood with all time-typical predjuces, if only to a lesser degree due to his overall indifferent nature.  
> 3\. Necromancy in this fic will be an extremely rarely manifested talent of Blacks and a heavily guarded secret (because it’s been banned ages ago).  
> 4\. I’ll try to elaborate on pureblood society and its customs, it’s history, the reasoning behind their sometimes extreme dislike towards mugglborns, etc.  
> I’ll also try to not sound like I’m completely illiterate, but I ask you to bear with the fact that I’m not a native speaker. Thank you!

Tom got his first glimpse of _him_ not long after the brilliant red train departed from the wizarding platform with odd number. He’d never been more grateful for his habit of coming in advance for anything even remotely important, because otherwise he would have probably ruined his chance to learn magic and carve a place for himself in the world where he belonged from the start.

He had the whole compartment to himself, of course, since he had been depraved of company of those who were just like him for his entire life.

Not that he needed those whiny, spoiled children all that much. Amy Benson had cruelly proved that attachments made you weak, and he prided himself on being a fast learner.

But still, what if his rightful world turned out to be different? There was only one way to find out, he supposed. And though he was hesitant to admit it even to himself, having someone to confide in would be... nice.

A small part of him thought so, at least. Purely theoretically, of course. It wasn’t like he had ever had any opportunity to converse with someone intelligent and willing enough. Garden snakes had come closest, but it wasn’t the same.

He was being sentimental and pathetic.

It must have had something to do with how dangerously his head still spun even after two months of being aware of this whole new world, his by birthright but denied for too long.

And that was when _he_ burst through the door, with _his_ presence alone bringing his reeling mind to a halt.

“Oh,” _he_ said. “My apologies. I thought you were someone else.”

The words would’ve sounded meek and sheepish if it weren’t for the detached, clearly not in the least bit interested tone of _his_ voice. He didn’t know it back then, but later on it became painstakingly evident that it was _his_ default approach to most of things, Tom himself being one of the rare exceptions.

He didn’t know, though, and thus made a mistake of alienating the only person who ever interested him. He’d berated himself over it countless times afterwards, and even after they started getting to know each other this miserable feeling refused to completely go away for a long while.

At the time he just saw a pompous, arrogant prat, no doubt one of those stuck-up purebloods with big, loving families, that ridiculed him for not being one of them — which was obvious, of course, from his second-hand robes atop muggle clothing and a battered first-year textbook on his lap.

He couldn’t help but imagine for a moment that it was _he_ on his lap instead. The thought made him confused, but mostly angry — at himself, and by extension the one who caused such an unexplainable turmoil seemingly without effort or any semblance of awareness of the fact.

 _His_ striking green eyes were just so... well, striking. There was no other world to describe them.

Unnatural, perhaps, on second thought. _Wonderful._

In the years to come he’d discover that they perfectly matched the color of his second favorite curse. The first would be reflected in his own.

But he knew nothing of the sort, and he was hurt, and instinctively wanted to respond in kind — as far as he was able, anyway, heeding Dumbledore’s warning.

“Well? What are you waiting for, then?” Tom sneered. “Hurry along and run around like an overzealous puppy in search of this person of yours.”

“You must be a mudblood,” the other boy concluded, suddenly shifting from seemingly bored to slightly interested. “Or raised in their world, at least. I wonder what would my family do if I decide to stick around. Disown me, at last? Pity I’m not particularly keen on finding out right away — it could have proven to be entertaining. Oh well, maybe some other time. I’ll let you get back to that ridiculously boring and inaccurate Ministry-approved history book now.”

With that said, _he_ promptly turned around and left, not bothering to wait for any response. And Tom stayed there, simultaneously insulted and wishing to leap to his feet, grab _him_ and never let go.

“That’s just plain stupid! Completely irrational! What’s wrong with you?” He scolded himself — aloud, since no one was around to take notice to his apparent lunacy.

It didn’t work, though. If anything, it only got worse. Tom never thought he’d be able to develop obsession quite as quickly — and with another person, to boot. But here he was.

The textbook laid all but forgotten. It didn’t interest him in the slightest anymore. Instead Tom Marvolo Riddle, the soon-to-become greatest student to ever come to Hogwarts halls, spiraled down towards the dark, murky waters that glowed poisonously green. The same hue that adorned the stranger’s eyes.

He was able to drag himself out of his reverie only with the help of the hoot that signaled the train’s arrival at Hogsmeade.

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

He got his second glimpse of _him_ at the Sorting, having had no opportunity to do so either at the platform or in the antechamber where the first years were pressed together like tinned sardines. It would have been a miracle to spot anyone in such a crumpled, crowded place, let alone someone quite as short and delicate, and Tom certainly didn’t believe in miracles — ones bestowed upon himself, at least.

Seeing _him_ at the Sorting was unavoidable, though, and Tom surprised (and irritated) himself with how much he looked forward to it.

Not that he wouldn’t have taken notice of the mysterious boy even if he tried to refrain from seeking him out specifically, since the moment _his_ name was called forth the student body broke in whispers.

“Black, Achernar,” Dumbledore said, right after “Abbott, Jasper” and “Avery, Richard”. A boy — _Tom’s_ boy — stepped forward, chin held high and posture confident, as though he didn’t hear half of the school whispering among themselves.

“Isn’t he supposed to be a squib? I was told the Blacks haven’t ever let him out of the Manor,” Tom heard from somewhere down the row of first-years.

“Yeah, he definitely wasn’t present at any of the soirées,” someone agreed.

“Don’t you two possess any brain sells? He would’ve been disowned the moment the Blacks identified him as a squib, possibly even dead,” someone at the nearby Ravenclaw table scoffed.

It went on and on, and Tom was having a hard time clenching his teeth and fists lest he did something stupid, like springing to the defence of a complete stranger and jeopardizing his only way out of the filthy orphanage.

Thankfully, it didn’t take long for the Hat to decide upon _his_ future House. Tom refused to acknowledge pathetic flattering of his heart when he heard the world ‘Slytherin’, loud and clear.

After that there were two more Blacks, a girl and a boy, also Slytherins, though they must have come from some different branch of the family, since neither resembled Achernar closely enough to pass as _his_ twin.

It was fortunate, Tom supposed. This way it would be easier to sway the boy — _no, Achernar_ — to his side and keep _him_ there at all times. Preferably forever.

He wouldn’t immediately act upon this irrational impulse, of course, opting to observe from a healthy distance at first. It wouldn’t do to expose himself so early to the scrutiny of the unfamiliar world he’d been thrown into mere two months ago, after all.

Besides, there was also the issue of this unnatural attraction which he had to unravel before making any moves. He was positive some sort of sorcery must be involved.

But be it as it may, though, Tom Marvolo Riddle never denied himself anything, and he wasn’t about to start now. He would bide his time, gathering useful information and carefully observing his person of interest, and only then would the strike, sinking his claws in Achernar deep enough to secure the smaller boy’s undying loyalty and devotion.

Patient preparation and meticulous planning were paramount to his inevitable success, and he would utilize both to the best of his ability. And after that the time would come to sit back and bask in his achievement.

“Riddle, Tom!” Dumbledore announced, forcibly dragging him out of his thoughts. Nobody paid him much attention — except for those perceptive enough to catch on the Deputy Headmaster’s weariness, that is —which suited Tom just fine. For the time being, at least.

He strode towards the stool with as much confidence as he could muster, refusing to show any insecurities for later exploit. He was already at a prominent disadvantage as it was, there was no need to further cement the idea that anyone could walk all over him without a second thought.

“Slytherin!” The Hat cried louder than ever before, not even touching his head.

Every single occupant of the enormous hall fell silent after that. All the incessant buzz and chatter died out in a heartbeat, and hundreds of eyes zeroed in on Tom, who stubbornly refused to cower under pressure, straightening up even prouder instead.

The Slytherins looked — flabbergasted, for lack of a better word. _Of course_ Riddle had to be a muggle surname, how foolish it was of him to think otherwise? Damned Dumbledore had sure had a helluva good laugh at his expense.

Was it his mother, then? ‘Marvolo’ sounded magical enough. And even most powerful of wizards bowed to death — his readings on this world’s history, however meager and spotty they were, proved as much.

Tom shook himself out of his musings, straining to not let anything show on his face, and gracefully strolled towards the Slytherin table. Everything was eerie silent still, which would be devastating if he were anyone less, but then a single lazy clapping of hands could be heard from his future table. It belonged to Achernar Black.

The sound was enough to break the spell all throughout the Great Hall, and a few other people — mostly teachers — joined in. Tom refused to let the oppressive, unwelcoming attitude from his peers deter him in the slightest, reaching the benches and situating himself in the corner at the far end of the table with calm confidence of someone who didn’t even notice such things.

After that the Sorting resumed.


	2. Welcome to the Slytherin House

“Defending a mudblood now, are you, Polaris?” A girl with what he came to label as ‘Black features’, who had to be in her second or third year, sneered at Achernar no sooner had the newbies — twelve in total, seven of them boys — gathered in magnificent Slytherin common room. The two prefects that led them there stood aside, clearly not intending to intervene.

“Of course not,” Achernar drawled disinterestedly with barely there hint of condescension. “Surely you’ve noticed that the Sorting Hat hasn’t even grazed him before announcing its decision. He must be descendant from a powerful Slytherin-oriented family, probably related to Salazar himself. Or were you perhaps under the impression that it refused to be subjected to Riddle’s ‘tainted blood’? If that were the case, I imagine we’d have found ourselves in Durmstrang walls instead.”

“Your sense of humor is atrocious, cousin,” the Walburga girl spluttered. “‘Salazar himself’? Surely those inbred Gaunts would never think of contaminating their bloodline with anyone other than yet another Gaunt, let alone someone named Riddle. You can’t deny it had to be a mudblood — or worse!”

Tom had barely opened his mouth to defend himself, consequences of antagonizing a bunch of pompous purebloods be damned, when another voice — this one coming from a first-year boy with coppery hair — beat him to it.

“Speaking of squibs,” he started cockily. “I’m surprised to see you at Hogwarts, Black. I mean Achernar Black, of course. Please take no offense, Alphard, Araminta, Walburga, Lucretia, Dorea.”

Walburga, all fire and passion, immediately drew her wand, followed closely by a meek girl to her left with same familial features, but the one who answered was Achernar himself.

“I do apologize for the inconvenience my mere presence must be causing you, Lestrange,” he sighed, sounding nothing but. “Unfortunately, my parents weren’t keen on sending me off to Durmstrang, what with the rumors about this latest uprising circulating all over the place and all. Not that it’s any concern of the likes of you, of course.”

“What!?” Lestrange shrieked. “I don’t know what you’re insinuating, hermit, but you’d be wise to stop now. And anyway, how do you even-“

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry,” Achernar cut the other boy off. “We hermits aren’t exactly good at recognizing the lineages, I’m afraid. Didn’t think I’d see a Weasley in my house, nonetheless I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“You!” Lestrange bellowed, his skin color now nearly matching that of his wavy hair, and produced his wand out of the sleeve. “I-

“If you are quite finished,” a girl with a Head Girl badge deadpanned, though her voice subtly conveyed the faint amusement. “Since none of my colleagues seem to be delivering the annual welcome speech, I’ll take it upon myself.

“My name is Dorea Black, and I’ve made a Head Girl this year — third Slytherin in a row, surprisingly enough. Thus, you won’t be able to come to me with your problems often, but you can always address these useless pieces of furniture,” she gestured at the couple of fifth-year prefects, “that were somehow deemed fit to do the job, Corvus Flint and Ophelia Carrow, or find the prefects from upper years, or even go directly to our Head of House, Horace Slughorn. Though I’d advise you against the latter, since Professor Slughorn tends to pick favorites and not pay much of attention to the rest of his students. In any case, it’s up to you.

“Now, I welcome all of you in Slytherin House, the greatest of the Hogwarts Four. The fact that the Hat deemed you worthy enough to be placed here proves that each and every one of you,” she looked around the gathered first-years, paused to stare pointedly at the Lestrange boy and lingered for a moment when she reached Tom and Achernar, who somehow ended up side by side during the commotion, “already possesses seeds of greatness inside. You all are capable of achieving magnificent things, but never mistake it for a guarantee. Yes, you’ve heard me; don’t you dare take it for granted. You’ll have to work relentlessly to improve yourselves and your goals, and then — and only then — will you become someone our House shall be proud of.

“It won’t be easy, mind you, in no small measure due to the open hostility that other Houses — and the world at large, once you enter it upon graduation — display towards Slytherins. Never forget that the moment your tie turned green and silver the whole student body put a stigma on you. They ostracize us for daring to strive for greatness, for our sense of self-preservation and ability to think instead of bludgeoning headfirst into a problem like ‘brave’ Griffindors, for our perceived prowess in so-called ‘Dark Arts’... in short, for anything that might seem wrong from their delusional point of view.

“Rest assured, though, that we are nothing like them. You have every right to dream of, or _practice_ , anything — so long as you don’t get caught outside of these walls, of course.

“In that regard, you should also remember that we present a united front to the rest of the school. The moment you step a foot outside of the common room, all quarrels with other Slytherins are to be forgotten. It’s the only way to survive in constant oppression and hostility that we are forced to endure, and you’d do well to bear it in mind. In times of need you should lend your hand to your fellow Slytherin, and don’t doubt that they’ll return the favor when you’re endangered by students from rivaling Houses.

“Your academical achievements are also important. Believe me, you won’t like the consequences if you’re slack in your studies. And yes, it also applies to you, Achernar,” Dorea suddenly turned to his neighbor. “I know perfectly well how tedious you find most of things that are generally taught at Hogwarts, however cousin Arcturus could certainly do without a note from Professor Slughorn.”

“Of course, Dorea,” Achernar responded, sounding bored out of his mind. The Head Girl seemed unfazed, and Tom started to suspect that it was probably default expression for his obsession.

Well, he’d simply have to change that once they were properly acquainted. It wouldn’t do for someone who had so thoroughly and effortlessly enthralled him to openly display indifference in — or god forbid, _to_ — his presence.

“Wonderful,” Dorea Black announced with a lilt of sarcasm. “I believe that’s all for now. Does anyone have any questions?”

The majority of first-years shook their heads in negative, whilst some, Tom and Achernar included, just stood there motionless. Lestrange looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end decided to play it safe and didn’t utter a word.

“Well then, I suppose you two may escort them to their dorms, if it wouldn’t be too much to ask,” the Head Girl said, addressing fifth-year prefects. Both scowled, but obeyed.

“Girls, please follow me,” the petite female — something Carrow — motioned towards the back of the common room.

“Boys,” Flint, a tall and heavily muscled figure, followed suit.

Seven young wizards were led to massive oak door with silver engraving that spelled _1938-1945_. Behind it was a spacious octagonal room with a big open hearth in the middle, surrounded by several armchairs and loveseats. Each wall had a door, though not as impressive as the one that led into the hall, and there was an extra that looked slightly different from the rest.

“The showers are over there,” Flint gestured at the door in question and turned to leave, but paused, as if remembering something. “Keep in mind that you’ll have to share them with second-years. Your trunks are already deposited in the assigned rooms, which you’ll have to figure out for yourselves. At least I hope that all of you are capable of reading the name tags.”

The last part was clearly intended for Tom, if the prefect’s disdainful glance was anything to go by, but before he could reply the oaf already left. The boys stood there for a moment longer, but then Tom overcame his rage and strode purposefully towards the nearest door on his left, hellbent on proving that just because he’d grown up in the muggle world he wasn’t illiterate.

In fact, he’d prove to them all that he was far better than anyone else — with the exception of Achernar Black, probably. And then no one would ever dare to belittle or ridicule him again. One day, all these proud, arrogant, stuck-up children would grovel at his feet and feel blessed because of it. Tom Marvolo Riddle would make sure of that.

The first room wasn’t his — it belonged to someone called Eloy Rosier, whoever that might be. The second one housed Alphard Black, no doubt a relative of Achernar’s. The third, however, wasn’t _his_ , despite what logic would dictate. It was assigned to Abraxas Malfoy instead.

Tom was beginning to suspect that the placement was entirely random, but didn’t get a chance to prove his theory; Lestrange, whose voice had already started grating on his nerves, apparently decided to break the uncomfortable silence.

“Well, Black — Achernar Black, I mean — why don’t you tell us what could have possibly possessed your parents to consider enrolling you in Durmstrang? Last time I checked your family was adamant in upholding the traditions, and attending Hogwarts was certainly one of them.”

Tom turned around, noticing that Achernar did the same. The other boy had already turned the doorknob on first door on the right, but apparently decided to indulge their incessant classmate.

Or not.

“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know, Weasley,” _He_ smirked enigmatically.

“I’m not-“ Lestrange began, but a hand on his forearm stopped him from humiliating himself any further. It belonged to a pale boy with long cascade of platinum blond hair that reached past his shoulders.

“For Salazar’s sake, Reg, he’s a Black. Bear with it, will you?” He exclaimed, before turning to Achernar with much more composed expression. “Though truth be told, I’d very much like to know that as well. After all, we are stuck together for at least six years, and I’d prefer to know what to expect in some certain... aspects, lest you accidentally lend us all in Azkaban — or worse, an early grave, though one might argue it’s a better fate.”

“Don’t worry, Malfoy. I assure you, it won’t be the case,” Achernar placated mockingly, while Tom silently lamented the fact that he seemed to be the only one who didn’t have the vaguest idea as to what was happening right in front of him. “My Black insanity doesn’t manifest that way. Though I won’t elaborate any further, I’m afraid. Wouldn’t want to appear insensitive to poor Lestrange over there. Oh wait, I just did, didn’t I? My apologies. I didn’t mean to be rude — or Circe forbid, _unwise_. Must be my inner hermit speaking.”

“Achernar, let him breathe!” The other Black — Alphard — shouted, and only then did Tom notice that _his_ poisonous green orbs were drilling intently into Lestrange, who seemed to be on the verge of passing out. A quick glance around revealed that the other occupants of the room didn’t fare much better, with the exception of Alphard (understandably) and Tom himself (entirely unexpectedly).

Meanwhile _he_ finally snapped out of whatever it was, looked around with an insane glint in his wide blazing eyes, briefly lingering on Tom with something akin to surprise, and fled to _his_ room, shutting the door with a loud bang.

“Well,” Malfoy said weakly after a pause, then cleared his throat and continued with much more dignity. “Cemetery it is, then. A pity. I hoped to introduce myself properly to my fiancé’s father one day. He was sentenced to life without parole by that fool Fawley.”

“Careful, Braxas,” a blond-haired boy almost as tall as Tom chuckled. “Is it the voice of treason I’m hearing?”

“Shut it, Avery,” Malfoy retorted. “Besides, it hardly counts as a treason if I merely express my opinion of _publicly elected_ Minister.”

Avery shook his head, but said nothing and started towards the door. By that time Tom had already identified his own, opposite from the one that led out in the hall, but opted to linger for a while longer in case someone else were to divulge any useful information.

“What did he do?” Alphard Black suddenly asked. “Lord Aurelius, I mean. I don’t remember any articles pertaining to his imprisonment or even trial.”

“Of course you don’t — my father pulled the strings to avoid the scandal that would have been associated with our family,” Malfoy scoffed. “As to what he did... well, he merely killed off some muggle scum — no offense, Riddle. Apparently it calls for such a severe punishment — if your last name isn’t Dumbledore, of course.”

“Dumbledore?” Tom perked up in interest, deciding to let the insult slide just this once.

“Don’t you know?” Malfoy sneered. “Oh, never mind. To your information, Riddle, our esteemed Deputy Headmaster’s father got ten years for the very same thing. What’s even more unfair is the fact that those muggles were underage. They threw rocks at his daughter, causing some permanent damage, or so I’ve heard. In any case, she never went to Hogwarts or any other magic school that the general public is aware of. You’d better ask one of the Blacks if you’re so interested. Any particular reason why, by the way?”

“He... delivered my letter,” Tom grimaced, deeming the question safe enough after a brief contemplation.

“So you’re a mudblood after all,” the last of his future classmates — Rosier, by process of elimination — joined in. “Or muggle-raised at most, if the insane Black is to be believed.”

“I’d advise you to remember that there’re two of us in this very dorm,” the remaining Black immediately hissed with impressive amount of disdain, then turned to Tom, looking like it pained him to do so and the only reason he did was his relative’s benefit. “The letters are usually delivered via owl. The only ones who are subjected to Dumbledore are mudb- — sorry, muggleborns — and muggle-raised with unknown origins. If you don’t mind me asking, what happened to your... family?”

“My mother died in labor, and I’ve never known my father,” he simply explained, seeing no point in concealing the truth now. “I grew up in an orphanage.”

Five nearly identical falsely sympathetic grimaces with varying degrees of cogency proved too much for him, and Tom decided to call it a day.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, not bothering to pretend it was anything other than empty pleasantries, “I’d prefer to retire for the night.”

Of course, he plastered himself to the other side of the door immediately upon entering his room, not even sparing a glance towards the furniture.

“Do you think your cousin might be right about his parentage? Mudbloods in Slytherin are unusual, but by no means unheard of,” someone asked. The sounds were muffled, thus making it hard for Tom to identify anyone with any semblance of surety.

“I don’t know, Riddle seems pretty powerful,” the answering voice certainly _did not_ belong to Alphard and made the eavesdropper silently curse at his inability to confirm who it was. This person must’ve been talking about some family magicks, which would have been an immensely useful thing to know. “Not that it proves anything yet, of course. And besides, it’s not easy to undo a decade of muggle upbringing. Riddle might be a capable wizard and a heir to Merlin himself, but it won’t make his beliefs any less repulsive, unless he makes an effort to embrace ours.”

“Somehow I doubt it’ll be much of an issue,” someone scoffed. “Muggle orphanages hardly make best places for any child’s splendid upbringing — wizard’s even less.”

“Yes, I do believe Achernar,” Black finally contributed. “He sees... more than the rest of us.”

“Is he a Seer?” Lestrange chimed in, his interest obviously picked.

“No, he is not,” Black replied with the sense of finality that nipped any further inquiries in the bud. “Doesn’t change the fact that he’s able to see deeper than you do, Richard. I suppose we’ll have to take his word for it and refrain from judging Riddle until he gives us a reason to do so.”

The last sentence distracted Tom from searching his memory for anyone who might have been this Richard character. He was pretty sure it couldn’t be Lestrange.

Not to mention that Achernar seemed to insinuate that family magicks apparently hadn’t manifested in the copper-haired boy, or something along those lines, and Tom was rather confident that he could rely on _his_ opinion on the matter.

“As if I’d ever lower myself to associating with someone’s muggle-raised bastard,” yes, definitely not Lestrange. This screeching voice could never be mistaken for anyone else’s.

“Of course not,” Black scoffed. “You think I would? In fact, I’m positive that Achernar himself didn’t mean anything of the sort. My cousin never takes a liking to anyone, even if they’re family. He must have been simply... overwhelmed by so much people, that’s all.”

“Now, now, there’s no need to defend your cousin’s honor,” someone — Malfoy, perhaps — chuckled. “I’m sure he’s more than capable of doing so all by himself.”

“So what, we do nothing to the House disgrace? Simply observe from a distance and make no move?” Another voice joined in.

“I suggest so,” probably-Malfoy replied. “For the time being, at least.”

“I don’t really understand why you waste so much energy on some mudblood vermin,” Black backed him up. “It’s not like they’re of any importance.”

“Yeah, say it to that dirt that challenged Fawley at the elections. Would’ve been even worse than the useless Hufflepuff himself, I imagine,” definitely Malfoy, then.

“Thank Merlin for small mercies,” someone snorted sarcastically.

“It’s getting pretty late,” Black suddenly announced. “Stay there all you want, but I’m leaving; the wards aren’t going to erect themselves.”

“Blacks and their paranoia,” Lestrange scoffed, but the shuffle of several people moving could be heard nonetheless.

“I don’t know, it might have some impact on the fact that we’re the most prolific House in Britain,” was Black’s cheerful reply from somewhere further in the room.

“Haven’t you heard of Weasleys?” Someone retorted.

“Did you just compare my family to those filthy blood-traitors, Avery!?” Black honest to god _growled_.

“Let the idiot be, will you?” Malfoy drawled. “Everyone knows that they’re just trying to overpower the curse anyway. Commendable, really, if a tad bit futile,” he paused. “Good night.”

After that four similar responses could be heard, and then everything fell silent. Tom finally turned to survey his room, but the tiredness suddenly caught up to him. He only registered a sizable wardrobe before his eyes zeroed in on a big, comfortable looking bed with fresh linens and soft bedspread.

He quickly disrobed and dived straight in, resisting the urge to moan upon impact. It was dozen times better than his bed at the orphanage. In fact, he’s never felt so comfortable in his life.

Sleep claimed him in a heartbeat, and he dreamed of ancient castles, hissing snakes and deathly green eyes.


	3. Push the Limits

The next morning Tom woke up before any of his classmates, if the eerie emptiness of both their adjacent parlor and the showers was any indication. The common room was nearly deserted as well.

He knew the first-years were supposed to wait there for the escort — Carrow mentioned something like that on the way to the dungeons. However, he couldn’t for the life of him fathom why he should be subjected to silent treatment and ‘subtle’ staring and sneering if he was perfectly capable of guiding himself.

His excellent memory once again served him well, and by the time he reached the Great Hall (without getting lost once) he was one of the first Slytherins to do so. From three other tables only Ravenclaw was somewhat occupied.

He paused, noticing _him_ sitting alone in the middle section of their table, but resolutely decided against immediate approach, dragging himself to the far end instead. One day they would be sitting there together, surrounded by mindless sheep competing for scraps of their betters’ attention, but sadly, today was not that day yet.

He would bide his time, contending himself with furtive glances towards his obsession, until the opportune time when he’d be able to secure his ownership once and for all.

Some time later the other first-years showed up, led by the pair of very unhappy fifth-year prefects, and seated themselves as far from him as possible without being downright obvious.

Not that he noticed their juvenile taunt, of course. Tom Marvolo Riddle was above such things.

He stood up with as much grace and dignity as he could muster, intending to explore the castle, but was approached before he could leave the hall.

Were it anyone else, he’d sneer and storm off without bothering to listen, but alas, he found himself incapable of doing anything of the sort to Achernar Black.

“Morning, Riddle,” _he_ drawled with the trademark air of complete indifference. “Apparently our year-mates in all their formidable intelligence seem to be under the impression that you might somehow pollute them with your presumably ‘dirty’ blood in event of direct exposure, thus I volunteered to inform you that they are about to gather in the parlor after breakfast, to ‘get to know each other’ or something. After that there will be an excursion around the castle and its grounds, conducted by Dorea herself.”

“I suppose I’ll pass,” Tom sneered, thinking of the barely concealed hostility he’d have to endure otherwise.

“Suit yourself,” Achernar shrugged disinterestedly, proceeding to stroll past Tom and towards the exit from the Hall. It took all his considerate willpower to not grab _his_ hand and make _him_ stay where _he_ belonged, but he managed.

He immediately scowled at himself for allowing these unnatural impulses to have so much control over his thoughts, especially since the other party appeared to have no such difficulties, and resolved to browse the library at the nearest opportunity. He was confident now that _he_ had no similar effect on any other students, especially after yesterday’s mysterious scene in the dorms, and was deeply invested in unraveling its possible cause.

Deep in thought, he left the Great Hall, contemplating pros and cons of the promised excursion, and stumbled upon none other than Albus bloody Dumbledore.

“Tom, my boy,” the Deputy Headmaster started with that damn infuriating twinkle in his blue eyes. “How are you adjusting?”

“Perfectly well, Professor, thank you,” he replied with as much charming politeness as he could manage.

“I’m glad to hear that,” his interlocutor smiled, as though relieved. Tom, however, had ceased to fall for such cheap tricks since he was six, when yet another adoptive family dumped him back at Wool’s after witnessing what he now knew to be his magic. He began to lock himself in his room for any ‘family days’ ever since.

“If you’ll excuse me, I was hoping to get back to my common room and grab a few things before the excursion.”

“Of course, of course,” the goat hurried to reassure. “Don’t let me keep you then. Off you go, my boy.”

He smiled, resisting the urge to retch all over the cheerful (mind-exploding) robes that the lunatic appeared to favor. He had a feeling that the eye-sore would become one of the most unpleasant constants of his days at Hogwarts, the pile of which seemed to grow at an alarming rate.

Still better than the orphanage, Tom reminded himself, and forced his lips to move a little bit wider.

“Have a good day, Professor,” he said, and then promptly skipped along the hall, making an effort to look as innocent and childish as possible.

He didn’t hear any response, but felt the eyes on his retreating form all the same.

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

By the end of the day Tom was glad that he’d decided to go along with the excursion thing, for the castle was _enormous_. Not that he’d had any doubt before, of course, but it seemed that it was even bigger on the inside.

Either that, or all the twists and turns and numerous passageways in most sudden places simply gave off such an impression. It hardly mattered in the end, he supposed.

The thing was, without this makeshift tour he probably would’ve been lost somewhere forever within the first week of studies, eidetic memory or not. And the fact that he now knew where all their classes were supposed to be held was an added bonus, since it allowed him to avoid being dragged around for a week in the company of his less than stellar classmates.

Didn’t mean he was content with just the mandatory knowledge of the most frequented areas of Horwarts, though. He fully intended to explore it further the next day, since it was Sunday.

Well, that and the rampage through the library, which was the most impressive room he’d ever seen. He understood from the start, of course, that the one near his orphanage couldn’t possibly hold a candle to _this_ , but was humbled and enraptured none the less.

It went without saying that he’d spent there the entire evening up until shortly before curfew, even going as far as to forgo the dinner (and successfully enamoring himself to the strict librarian, Madam Blackwood). The guileless woman probably thought that he’d been sorted into Slytherin instead of Ravenclaw by mistake.

Sadly, it didn’t make her bend the rules and allow him to take back to the dungeons more than three books.

Not that it was such an inconvenience, considering that he could swap them any time he wanted, as opposed to all the difficulties he had to go through back at the orphanage. Mrs. Cole, for instance, got extremely angry as soon as he so much as mentioned his desire to go to the library, as though he could somehow stumble upon a cult grimoire and unleash the demonic wrath on her or something.

Now that was an idea. Did wizards even practice summoning, or were there nothing out there to summon?

Just as he began to seriously contemplate it, Tom noticed that he’d apparently reached the entrance to Slytherin common room and shook his head, banishing the tantalizing images. He muttered the password — ‘Toujours Pur’, which made Achernar snort amusedly the previous evening — and stepped inside, then confidently strode towards the first-years’ dorms, with practiced ease ignoring all the whispering and staring.

Let them mock him now, for they wouldn’t be in a position to do so later. And he would remember even the slightest transgressions and punish them accordingly for daring to make a laugh of him.

His classmates — five of them, he noted — paused in their blabbering the moment he stepped into the parlor, but be paid them no mind, quickly crossing the room and entering his private bedroom. Just as his door closed, the chattering began anew, but today he had no desire to eavesdrop.

His hungry gaze focused solely on three thick leather-bound tomes he’d acquired from the library. To him the treasures contained within the dusty books were like an embarrassment of reaches, and the fact that they were evidently left unopened for so long only further cemented his contempt towards those pompous, ungrateful purebloods whose only major achievement was being born into magic and wealth.

They lived in this wonderful, mesmerizing world from birth and had so many opportunities presented to them on a silver platter, but it all went to waste. Magic offered limitless possibilities that no one bothered to delve into, all because they grew stagnant and complacent in their perceived superiority. Even muggles, lowly beasts that they were, evolved and brought previously unimaginable things into reality, muggles — but not wizards!

It was sickening, and Tom vowed to never allow their laziness and unfounded arrogance to rub off on him. They could wallow in the mud for all he cared; he didn’t need them — any of them — to spread his wings and soar to greater heights.

Well, any but one, if he were to be completely honest with himself.

His thoughts circuited back to Achernar, just as they were prone to do nowadays, and he nearly growled in frustration. _No one_ had ever affected him like this, and he didn’t even know what was happening (and why)! Tom Marvolo Riddle hated not knowing.

He determinedly pushed every last thought of his obsession from his mind and picked up a random book, which turned out to be about wizarding celebrations and beliefs. _Might as well_ , he thought with a shrug. It wasn’t like he held dear any of those stupid Christian practices that for him were forever linked to harsh words and beatings, foul smells and that single horrid experience of exorcism — something that haunted him in sleep ever since, however vehemently he tried to deny that he harbored such a disgusting weakness.

No, wizarding culture was much better. A perfect fresh start to shape himself anew from.

He absentmindedly flicked his wrist, creating a warm glowing orb that chased away the settling dusk, and cracked open the weathered tome, determined not to waste a moment longer. The glorious tales of olde captivated him in no time.

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

A couple of hours later Tom’s eyelids started to droop, and with great reluctance he put the half-devoured book aside, snuffed out the artificial light and dived under the covers. Unlike the previous night, however, sleep wouldn’t come.

Maybe all the excitement of new experiences was finally catching up to him? He tossed and turned this way and that, his head a monstrous contraption of intangible thoughts and impressions.

Finally, after what felt like hours, he came to terms with the fact that he probably wouldn’t get any much needed rest this night.

He fumbled for his wand on the bedside table and cast a _Tempus_ , not particularly surprised to find out that it was nearly four in the morning.

Definitely no sleep, then.

He got up, threw a cloak over his underwear, not bothering with anything else, grabbed the book and blearily stumbled into the parlor.

Then he did a double-take and turned around, wanting nothing more than to disappear back into his room, because in one of the armchairs facing the hearth (and subsequently Tom) sat his deepest obsession. Thankfully, _he_ appeared to be too deep in thought, staring intently into the flicking flames, to notice much of anything.

The relief was short-lived, though.

“No need to run with your tail between your legs, Riddle,” Achernar drawled with a hint of amusement, though it was barely there under the all-encompassing tiredness. “There’s plenty of room for the both of us — unless you’re appalled at the very idea of breathing in the same air as a big bad pureblooded Black, of course.”

“I thought it was you who ought to be afraid of me contaminating you, not the other way around,” he replied with a smirk, then nearly winced at how suggestive he sounded. Achernar only chuckled, though, probably not getting the innuendo.

“Well, in that case I’m sure we can sufficiently contaminate each other.”

Or getting it just right and not giving a fuck, on second thought.

Still bewildered, Tom marched to the armchair closest to Achernar’s and gracelessly plopped down, for once in his life not caring about the appearances and deciding to go with the flow.

“Slinkhard?” _He_ lifted a brow, though it wasn’t exactly clear whether _he_ was amused or impressed. “A... peculiar choice, I must admit. Not many read him nowadays, you know.”

“And pray tell, why?” Tom frowned, interpreting his interlocutor’s expression as amusement. “I’m honestly baffled.”

“Are you now?” _He_ snickered. “I don’t know, it might have something to do with the fact that this tome is essentially a six hundred pages compilation of varying practices, most of which long since ceased to be upheld, and nothing more. You won’t find any in-depth understanding or even actual technics. Just some history notes about several conflicting cultures.”

“And yet you’ve read it as well,” Tom retorted with confidence he did not feel. “Moreover, I disagree in regards to understanding. You don’t have to practice certain magicks to feel them, _resonate_ with them.”

Achernar’s breath hitched, an unreadable expression flickering on his face, but he recovered swiftly enough.

“I’ve read many things; must be a byproduct of cooping up in the Manor with no chance to escape. Doesn’t mean I value all of those, though.”

“Still, I don’t believe that history, if you insist on perceiving it as such, holds no value on its own,” Tom said at length, despite his very being screaming at him to focus on _his_ admission instead and throw caution and patience to the wind. “The things described in this book, however outlived they may be, are magnificent, _magical_. You shouldn’t stop striving for greater heights just because everyone else no longer does it. Turning matchsticks into needles and making pineapples dance is all well and good, of course, but being blessed with magic flowing in your veins isn’t about that.”

“To be fair, they make us turn-“

“It’s not what I meant, and you know it!” He interrupted heatedly. “I’m talking about reshaping the world, defying the very logic of what should and shouldn’t be possible. The potential is limitless as long as we refuse to put ourselves in metaphorical shackles.”

“Oh my, aren’t you full of passion, Riddle!” _He_ scoffed derisively, though Tom saw that he’d managed to get through that impenetrable armor. “You’ve been aware of our world for what, a couple of months? And still you believe yourself better than us, who were born into this world and grew up surrounded by magic in everything we touch.”

“Be it as it may,” he replied calmly, not rising to the bait, “I don’t think of it as a disadvantage anymore. If my _splendid_ upbringing allowed me to escape complacency and prejudice, then I’d choose those hardships and pains over and over again.”

“You are no fun,” Achernar honest to god _pouted_. “How can I make you break down your masks and defenses if you have none? Or more accurately, you consist solely of them with nothing underneath.”

“What?” He asked dumbly, thrown off track.

“Your masks. They are impeccable, spotless, because you wear them at all times, jumping from one to another to better suit whatever situation you find yourself in, adapting and molding without a conscious effort because it’s all you’ve been doing from the start. You don’t know anything else. You don’t know yourself.”

“Is there any specific point you’re getting at with this nonsense?” Tom rasped through his suddenly dry throat. He didn’t think that all of these observations were accurate, but no one had ever gotten marginally this close to the truth (whatever that might be) either — except maybe for Dumbledore, that is, but the Deputy Headmaster got an upper hand during Tom’s introduction, as opposed to the enigma that was Achernar Black.

“I don’t know. Is there?” _He_ smirked with cruel amusement. And that’s when Tom had an epiphany.

“You don’t really think so, do you?” He asked, completely calm. “Unless you’re willing to admit that you’re the same.”

“I might be,” _he_ shrugged, unfazed. “Do not fret, Riddle. That’s one of the things that I like about you, you know. You aren’t just pretending, you really don’t care about most things.”

“Do you now?” Tom drawled, still reeling from the bizarre, uncomfortable topic. “Yet your cousin, on the other hand, seems to think that you aren’t fond of people as a rule.”

Achernar’s expression fell, and _he_ stared blankly at Tom for an uncomfortable moment. Then _he_ swiftly stood up and strode towards his bedroom without uttering another word.

Tom barely resisted slapping himself.

“Achernar,” he trailed off, inwardly cringing at how... lost ( _desperate_ ) he sounded. He still didn’t understand what was happening to him, but it didn’t make him react any less strongly.

_He_ turned around with a sneer and darkly delighted gleam in _his_ eyes, though the expression briefly faltered when _he_ took in Tom’s taut form. Didn’t make _his_ next words less cruel, though.

“Oh my,” Achernar heaved a put-upon sigh and raised a challenging brow. “I really thought you were more perceptive than this — not that I should be surprised by yet another disappointment, of course. Guess I’ll have to spell it out for you, then; you have to do much, much better if you aim to make me even slightly unsettled.”

It was an obvious lie, for some reason, and Tom contemplated calling out on it, but before he could decide one way or another Achernar had already left with a muffled “good night”.

He sat there for a while longer, going over the whole encounter in his head, but in the end had to grudgingly admit the defeat. God, he couldn’t for the life of him figure out the enigma that was Achernar Black.

Though to think of it, wasn’t the abrupt end of conversation a sign that _he_ was somehow affected by whatever it was as well?

Tom didn’t know what to believe.


	4. Tip the Scales

Tom honestly didn’t know what he expected, but the next day, as well as the ones that came after, nothing at all seemed to change (for the better, at least). His yearmates still avoided him like a plague, which would have been fine, if not for the fact that Achernar now did the same. _He_ was much more subtle about it than the rest of them, of course, but Tom wasn’t fooled in the slightest.

The classes, which he excitedly looked forward to, turned out to be incredibly boring. He got almost everything on the very first try and then had to sit idly and do nothing, forced to observe the pathetic ‘progress’ of other students.

The only deviation from this dreadful routine, though not at all pleasant, was Transfiguration, which was taught by Dumbledore. Damned bastard was the only faculty member who didn’t buy into his charmingly polite and modest facade, no doubt because of what that stupid wretch of a caretaker told him at the orphanage, and it showed.

More than that, the coot’s obvious distrust rubbed off on his _precious_ Gryffindors, and self-righteous morons didn’t miss a single chance to pick on Tom, at times rivaling the viciousness of London orphan rats.

It was Wool’s all over again, and Tom _hated_ it. More so the fact that he was in no position to properly retaliate.

It went on and on for weeks, and Tom would’ve undoubtedly snapped ages ago, if not for his tremendous self-control (and one more night encounter with Achernar, which left him baffled and sufficiently distracted for a while).

After that he began to notice that _he_ was often watching him surreptitiously these days, and responded in kind. He contemplated openly confronting _him_ about it, but in the end decided not to waste an effort; it wasn’t like Achernar would ever give him a straight answer anyways.

Though to be fair, Tom didn’t need to directly interact with the minx to glimpse at least one thing. _He_ was indeed affected by strange magical pull as well, if only to a lesser degree for whatever reason; he was convinced of that.

Not that it brought him any closer to unraveling the mystery, unfortunately. Truth be told, he probably would have far better chances at it if he acquired Madam Blackwood’s help (the old lady was positively _smitten_ with him by this point), but he didn’t dare risk it. He had a feeling that the answer was rather sensitive, and the consequences of it getting to the wrong people (Dumbledore, for instance) would have been devastating.

And Dumbledore _would_ know, of course, since the fucker was well-respected and masterfully inspired trust and almost sickening devotion in most of those whom he interacted with. It was truly a wonder he wasn’t a Slytherin himself.

Come to think of it, it probably had something to do with his disgustingly _light_ affinity — not only in magic, but in his very beliefs as well. And Tom had a pretty solid grasp on those, since the esteemed Deputy Headmaster had no qualms about sprouting them at the slightest opportunity.

Not that Tom had anything against light wizards in general, of course. It was more about attitude than something as foolish as one’s magical core.

Though for some reason in British wizarding community these cores seemingly equated to personal convictions and political standing, which was downright baffling. Even more so, the tendency spread abroad as well, if Slytherins’ gossip about a Dark Lord’s rapid uprising somewhere in Eastern Europe was to be believed.

The history, which he studied on his own due to Professor Binns’ sheer incompetence, gave further credence to his assumptions, since different Dark Lords with roughly similar agendas tended to emerge approximately once a century or two, fought up until their inevitable defeat, and then the process began anew. And throughout this all not a single Light Lord was so much as mentioned, which only served to cement the general public’s prejudice against anything even remotely ‘dark’.

Given all of the above, the Dark families’ own extreme hostility appeared perfectly understandable. Tom knew himself well enough to not harbor any doubt that if he was methodically and continuously stripped of everything he hold dear for generations, including the very magic that thrummed in his veins, his response would be... not kind, to put it lightly.

Still, it didn’t change the fact that he had every intention to painfully _absolve_ his housemates from that silly misconception in regards to his person that they’d diligently built up. And he would derive a great deal of pleasure from the process.

For now, though, he had to make due with just occasional small retaliations when no one could possibly notice, which was unsatisfactory and maddening and not at all what he was used to. He even grew to remember the filthy orphanage with almost _fondness_ , if only for how powerful he felt after he figured out his abilities, though now, with the goddamned Trace in the picture, it would unfortunately change.

To tell the truth, he dreaded his return there for the upcoming summer, despising ( _fearing_ ) how defenseless he would be against any assault. Thankfully, he still had time to make alternative arrangements until then, and given a bit of luck he would succeed in this crucial endeavor.

Lost in his own thoughts, Tom made a grievous mistake of not noticing a group of Gryffindor first-years until it was too late. A slight push was all it took for him to fall down the stairs, panic and terror seizing his heart.

His magic flared to life, freezing him midair before he could plummet into the floor below with enough force to most probably die upon impact. Breathing wildly, he glanced up, managing to catch a glimpse of his retreating assailants, and then was lowered gently to the pavement.

His knees buckled, and for a few minutes he just sat there, trembling all over. He had never felt so terrified in his whole life, even when he was strapped to a table in the basement at Wool’s and undergone the torture that was exorcism at tender age of five.

He breathed in and out deeply, counting in his head, and eventually calmed down enough to feel confident that his mask wouldn’t slip. Then he lifted his head, ignoring the slight tremors that were still coursing through his body, and recoiled at the sight that greeted him.

Right there, a mere few paces in front of him, stood Achernar, ashen-pale, his blazing eyes glued to the spot where Gryffindors had been not long ago.

“Don’t you dare,” Tom hissed furiously, understanding his housemate’s intentions perfectly well despite his brain working at barely half of its usual capacity.

Achernar blinked, seemingly just coming back to _his_ senses. _His_ eyes lost their unholy glow, and the temperature warmed significantly. Up until that moment Tom hadn’t even registered its unnatural drop.

“As you wish,” _he_ rasped after a long assessing stare at Tom’s face, nodded and left without another word.

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

It happened on All Hallows’ Eve. One would argue that it was a tad bit flashy and dramatic (Tom ignored the mental image of an amused Achernar), but he merely considered it symbolic.

It was the night of superstitions and bad omens for muggles, and Dark’s triumph for wizards, after all.

Fitting, he supposed.

His planning was meticulous and careful, so as not to warrant any persecution. Dumbledore would probably still suspect him, of course, just because the goat was so adamant on proving his ‘nefarious nature’, but he could hardly do anything in absence of witnesses. Tom had even forgone showing himself to the victims, much to his inner chagrin, all to avoid even the slightest chance of being called out on his actions.

No matter, though. He could still gloat to his heart’s content in the privacy of his own room, and his would-be murderers would get what they deserved. Well, not entirely, but it was a close thing.

The more obscure version of the Eternal Nightmare Curse would see to that.

It was actually rather ingenious of him to come up with something like that, if he did say so himself. While the original curse merely made its targets repeatedly revive their worst nightmares for a couple of hours and was relatively easy to remove if one knew how to spot it (and Dumbledore sure as hell did, for all his hypocritical crusade against the Dark Arts), the one he had discovered relied on the power of caster’s imagination, and Tom possessed a _very_ good one. Not to mention that the expected Counter-Curse would do literally nothing to stop the torment.

As an added bonus, it wasn’t even banned due to the fact that it had fallen into obscurity centuries ago. The only reason he’d discovered it at all was his deep fascination with historical folios that no one ever bothered to crack open. It was in one of those that he’d found a thin stack of faded parchments with hand-written notes on the most inventive ways to make someone miserable he’d ever dreamed of.

Yes, Tom’s daily rampages through the library had definitely paid off, and now he was sitting in the common room after the Samhain feast, discreetly listening in to conversations for any signs of the tortured souls having been discovered (which seemingly hadn’t happened as of yet) or information for future use, and straining to not show his glee. He made a point to spend some time there regularly for the past couple of weeks, generally with a book on his lap, in order to not let his sudden appearance look unusual.

Not that he was overly concerned with possibility of being caught. All his bases were covered to the best of his ability, which was a lot. The only thing that could possibly go wrong was an off-chance of some wandering soul stumbling upon him in the act, and with that out of the way the rest was child’s play.

He smiled in satisfaction before remembering himself and readjusting his impenetrable mask, looking absolutely casual and relaxed.

And that was when the entrance wall shifted, granting access to positively fuming Dumbledore with Headmaster Dippet and Professor Slughorn in tow, who immediately made a beeline towards the unoccupied corner of the common room that Tom had claimed as his. Not that it was much of an effort, considering the dead zone around him that quickly established itself wherever he turned up.

Tom tensed minutely, having no doubt of where this was coming from, but made a conscious effort to ease back before his apprehension could have been spotted.

“...It’s ridiculous, Albus!” His Head of House attempted to drive the point across (not for the first time, it seemed). The effort was admirable, if pointless, considering how much of a stubborn mule the Deputy Headmaster was. “Surely-“

“Horace,” Dumbledore cut off his colleague exasperatedly. “I’ve told you time and again what the boy really is, have I not? This incident just proves it. You cannot continue with your willful ignorance any longer, lest we all will be complicit in his descent into darkness!”

By the time the goat finally turned to address him, Tom had schooled his features into appropriate confusion with a touch of underlying hurt.

“Professors?” He asked uncertainly, sending a pleading look Slughorn’s way.

“Tom,” Dumbledore stated gravely. “What did you do to Gryffindor students? Your fellow first-years!”

“What?” He blinked, confusion transforming into affront. “I didn’t do anything!”

“Yes, you did,” the bastard sighed forlornly, as though he was deeply saddened by the proceedings (while anyone with half a brain would have been able to tell that he could care less about a bunch of disposable puppets). “Please don’t lie to us now. They are innocent children, Tom! Just tell me what you did and how to reverse it, and I promise you won’t be expelled.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about, Professor!” Tom responded, blinking rapidly as if to dispel the tears. Did the fucker really think him stupid enough to just up and confess? Surely he should have realized by now that Tom Marvolo Riddle knew better than that.

“See?” Slughorn joined in. “I told you so, Albus! Tom is a model student!”

“It doesn’t necessarily equate to being a clean moral person,” Dippet argued. “Though in this case I’m not exactly disagreeing with you. You’re his Head of House, after all, which gives your assessment more credence than Albus’.”

“You both don’t-“ Dumbledore started heatedly, but was interrupted by a new — very young and _familiar_ — voice coming from the direction of the dorms.

“Here you are, Tom! I thought we were supposed...” Achernar — for no one else in the snake pit would ever lift a finger to come to his defense, House unity be damned — started off as chirping, but trailed off uncertainly upon ‘noticing’ the additions to their common room. Tom was impressed with how flawlessly the other boy performed, since convincingly overlooking Dumbledore’s atrocious clothing had to be a remarkable feat in itself.

“What’s going on?” _He_ implored worryingly, hurrying up to Tom’s side as naturally as if _he_ had been doing so for weeks.

“I don’t know, Achernar,” he shook his head slowly, munching on his bottom lip in a display of sincere loss. He then shifted in his seat, making room for his housemate to perch atop the armrest, and was amazed at how casual they made it look.

“Are you trying to accuse Tom of something, Professors!?” Achernar demanded indignantly.

“No, of course not,” Slughorn assured, and was clearly about to add something else, but Dumbledore beat him to it.

“Yes, I do,” the self-righteous bastard confirmed with grave sense of finality. “And if you don’t mind me asking, why are you so opposed to the very possibility of young Tom’s wrongdoing without even hearing my reasoning, my boy?”

“It’s Mr. Black to you, _Professor_ ,” _he_ retorted scathingly. “My father warned me about _your sort_ , you know. Pick yourself another boy.”

Somewhere in the background several snorts could be heard, and Tom was hard pressed not to do the same. The look on old coot’s face was _priceless_!

“I assure you, my b- Mr. Black, I’m not interested in children,” Dumbledore tried to regain his footing.

“Now, I wouldn’t be surprised, what with your brother’s record,” Achernar smirked with all the arrogance of an offspring of the most notorious Dark family in Britain.

A significant part of the common room clearly lost it, erupting in laughter, and Tom would have undoubtedly joined in, had he been privy to the juicy story. As it was, though, the implications alone were almost enough, but not quite.

“Mister Black!” Slughorn gasped, scandalized.

“Fifteen points from Slytherin,” Dumbledore bit out. Tom had never seen the man lose his composure so thoroughly.

The laughter died out.

“I believe we came here for interrogation, did we not?” Dippet reminded, hiding a minuscule smile under facade of bored impatience.

“Oh, yes, Headmaster,” Slughorn nodded. “But surely Tom-“

“Cursed those students,” Dumbledore finished instead, back on track. “It’s a heinous offense, Tom, and I demand you to tell us what you did to them this instant, if you know what’s good for you.”

“But I’ve already told you I didn’t do anything!” Tom exclaimed, maintaining his best hurt expression.

“Aren’t you supposed to operate under presumption of innocence?” Achernar frowned with bafflement that was to be expected from a member of a House with more Wizengamot seats than it was decent. “What evidence do you have except for your unfair bigotry towards Tom?”

“Mr. Black here is right, Albus,” Slughorn conceded disapprovingly. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you treat the poor boy.”

“Alright,” Dumbledore sighed, “Tom, where were you this afternoon while five first year Gryffindors were being cursed to delve into the world of nightmares?”

“I’ve-“ Tom started.

“He’s been there with me,” _he_ interrupted. “And don’t tell me all this fuss really is about Eternal Nightmare Curse. Surely you don’t need such an assembly to simply remove the curse and talk to the victims in hopes of identifying the culprit.”

“He’s been there... with you?” The meddling fool parroted disbelievingly, ignoring the second part of _his_ statement.

“Yes, that’s what I’ve just said,” Achernar didn’t roll _his_ eyes, precisely, but it was a close thing. “We were discussing the olde rituals of Samhain and the reasons behind their prohibition, if you are wondering. Dear Tom is rather taken with the subject, you see.”

“Yes, I find it particularly controversial and thus intriguing,” Tom nodded, his hurt melting into ‘eager muggle-raised student’ mode. And strangely enough, he didn’t find the sudden endearment particularly unpleasant.

“Can anyone else confirm this, perhaps? You two were in common room, correct?” Dumbledore refused to admit defeat.

Tom honestly didn’t know what the fool was hoping for. It was true that no one in Slytherin would have moved a finger to help their ‘disgrace’ out, but now a Black became involved as well. After this they couldn’t possibly _not_ back up the lie.

“Of course,” Walburga Black was first to respond. “My cousin and Riddle were deeply engrossed in their conversation for several hours, up until the feast, in fact.”

“Yes,” Malfoy scoffed. “They were all over each other right there in Riddle’s corner. I dare say the argument seemed pretty heated at times. It got us all curious, but Black unfortunately knows some powerful confidentiality charms.”

Several other Slytherins nodded in agreement, despite how much it must have pained them to do so.

“Huh? I haven’t even noticed you hovering around,” Achernar commented with perfect owlish expression.

“I was certainly _not_ -“ Malfoy began indignantly, but was cut off mid-sentence by their Head of House.

“Now, now, boys, there’s no need to engage in quarrels,” Slughorn smiled fondly, then turned towards the Head of rivaling House. “We Slytherins are already ostracized for no reason as it is, we shouldn’t help our enemies along even further.”

“I believe that’s enough,” Dippet announced. “See, Albus, young Mr. Riddle here clearly didn’t attack your lions. I suppose we should focus on more urgent matters now, like figuring out and countering the curse. My deepest apologies, Mr. Riddle.”

“It’s quite alright, Headmaster,” Tom smiled meekly. “I hope you’ll cure those unfortunate Gryffindors and find the one who is behind this atrocity soon.”

Headmaster Dippet simply nodded and turned to leave, beckoning his two subordinates to follow the lead. Dumbledore, still appearing distrustful, had no other choice but to oblige. Slughorn lingered to apologize profusely and then exited the common room as well.

No sooner had the authority figures disappeared behind the wall than the entire room erupted in whispers and cries.

“What is the meaning of this, Polaris?” Walburga Black angrily demanded. “Wait until uncle Arcturus hears about your... your _stunt_!”

“Oh no, dear cousin,” _he_ whispered softly, shaking _his_ head in mock solemnity. “Are you perhaps under the impression that you can freely order me around, _again_?”

“N-no,” the girl stammered, white as a sheet of muggle quality paper. “O-of c-course not, I m-merely observed-“

“Then ‘m-merely observe’ in some other place, if you please,” Achernar cut her off with a tender smile that somehow managed to look terrifying — to anyone other than Tom, that is. He found it absolutely endearing.

“I will,” Walburga nodded, still ghostly pale, and retreated towards her eager group of associates with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Thank you, Black,” Tom conceded reluctantly, the words foreign on his tongue. “Though it wasn’t necessary.”

“Oh, none of that; call me Heri. After all, we’re apparently _best of friends_ as of now, _dear Tom_ ,” Achernar waved him off in a carefree manner, for some reason looking elated and terrified and _free_ all at once. “And I do believe it was, in fact, necessary. In case you haven’t noticed, they were obviously about to check your wand, and would have done so had I not sent old muggle-lover into frenzy. You owe me, Riddle.”

“Check my wand?” Tom asked, paling drastically. “What do you mean ‘check my wand’?”

Achernar produced his own and made a well-practiced zigzagging motion.

“It’s a very basic privacy ward,” _he_ responded to Tom’s arching brow. “Yes, I’ll show you. That’s not important right now. What matters is that you obviously haven’t taken any counter measures to ensure that your wand couldn’t be linked to the incident. They have a spell to establish such things, you know. The incantation is _Priori Incantatem_ , and it shows so much as twenty five last spells cast with the wand in reverse order. I’d bet the one you’ve used on those morons would’ve turned up first. What did you do, by the way? Morgana knows it wasn’t that overrated Eternal Nightmare Curse.”

Achernar looked giddy with excitement, and any other time Tom would have hopelessly indulged _him_ , but his mind came to a screeching, horror-stricken halt at the words ‘twenty five’”.

“God, twenty five!” He slowly exhaled.

“What, you’ve been up to even more inappropriate things lately?” Achernar asked teasingly. “Come on, it’s all behind you now, Tom, _you are safe_.”

“And you’re... alright with it?” He deflected, slowly coming back to his senses. “With covering up my tracks, I mean.”

“I’m a Black, am I not?” _He_ huffed. “What do you expect me to do, run around screaming about your _evilness_? I think not. And besides, _I saw what that scum did to you_. You’ve let them off the hook too lightly, in my opinion.”

“Oh, you have no idea, _Heri_ ,” Tom smirked, finally feeling like himself again. “I wouldn’t call it ‘lightly’. And it’s not like I can murder people around at tender age of eleven, now can I?”

“So what did you do?” _He_ bounced up and down eagerly, nearly falling off the armrest. The only thing that kept him upright was Tom’s hand that instinctively enveloped the other boy’s waist. He was very reluctant to let go after that, and Achernar seemed to share the sentiment, shockingly enough.

“Are you calling in your favor?” He asked, dispelling the tension.

“Of course not!” _He_ scowled. “I dare say your continuous education is worth more than that. Though I offer to trade the privacy ward in exchange, if you’d like.”

“No, it certainly doesn’t seem adequate.”

“For some obscure curse that even almighty Dumbledore is not aware of? Fair enough,” _he_ shrugged. “A whole cluster of various privacy wards and spells then?”

“I accept,” Tom conceded after brief consideration. “Payment first, though.”

“Fine. Come on, then, I’ll show you in the dorms,” Achernar — _Heri_ — hopped off the armrest, dismounting the ward with an absentminded flick of _his_ wrist, grabbed Tom’s hand and basically dragged him to their dorm, unmindful of incredulous stares along the way.

“You sure your cousin ‘didn’t mean anything like that’, Alphard? Certainly doesn’t seem that way to me,” he heard Malfoy’s voice before the door slammed shut, cutting off the conundrum of their common room.


	5. Know Thy Enemy

“Let me get this straight,” Achernar — _no, Heri_ — said the next day, after _he_ couldn’t contain _his_ excitement any longer and dragged Tom off somewhere private, earning a considerate amount of wary glances from their housemates who’d learned to somewhat fear the insane Black. “You’ve just stumbled upon some half-rotten piece of parchment with hand-written notes on this incredible curse in a _history book_?”

“In essence, yes,” Tom confirmed with a smug smirk.

“You must have bathed in Felix Felicis at some point, I tell you!” Heri shook _his_ head, bewildered.

“Felix Felicis?” He arched a questioning brow, almost accustomed to the gesture after half a day in the knowledge trove’s company.

“Liquid luck,” _he_ waved a dismissive hand. “It’s a potion, supposedly incredibly hard to brew. ‘Bottled good fortune’, they say, though it’s toxic and addictive and the effect doesn’t last long.”

“I’d prefer to create ‘good fortune’ on my own,” Tom nodded in agreement, reading his interlocutor like an open book. He received a grateful smile in return.

“So, back to the curse,” Heri nudged impatiently.

“The curse, yes,” he confirmed, just to tease the unnaturally cheerful minx some more.

“Tom!” _He_ whined in mock desperation, swatting him playfully.

“Alright, alright,” he conceded, laughing softly. He couldn’t recall the last time he felt so light and care-free — probably never, to be honest.

Achernar stared at him in something akin to wonder, a gentle smile playing on his lips, but snapped out of it as soon as Tom began to explain. He crashed a tinge of regret at this development, opting to examine his rebellious emotions later (or never).

All in all, it was a good day.

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

Tom and Heri were sitting in now _theirs_ reserved spot in the common room, surrounded by empty space as per usual, when an unfortunate disturbance happened. Really, Tom had grown tired of those since the accident with Gryffindors, but his school life seemingly refused to go as smoothly as he hoped.

At first he hadn’t even registered what was about to transpire, since literally no one dared to venture into the dead zone, as if afraid of being somehow contaminated by his close proximity alone (though they masked it as derision). Not that he paid that much of attention to it anyway; Heri was _wonderful_ — a friend that he never allowed himself to long for ( _and so much more_ ).

Sadly, _he_ still didn’t spend much time in Tom’s company, at times socializing with their year-mates or other Blacks, of whom there were six in total, or just wandering off to wherever it was that _he_ disappeared to when _he_ wished to be left alone. Tom had every intention to change that, of course; ideally to the point of rivaling obsession on _his_ part, but he would take what he could get.

The one who unexpectedly approached them, however, was by no means part of Achernar’s fleeting social circle. Tom had made a point to memorize each and every one of them, after all.

This bulky blonde boy appeared to be around thirteen of fourteen and had never once came close to any of the Blacks — which was a bit strange, come to think of it, considering the sheer number of them.

This coincidence, if one could call it that, instantly set his teeth on edge.

“Defiling your family name by hanging around a mudblood, are you now, _Black_?” The stranger spat. “Though I suppose there isn’t that much of defiling to be done by this point. Your mental instability caused by inbreeding precedes you, and this is just one more example. How the mighty have fallen.”

“Ah, Rowle,” Achernar sighed disinterestedly, as if mere talking to the moron was too much effort. Tom never ceased to be amazed at _his_ apparent knowledge of everyone around them, since it shouldn’t have been possible, considering the fact that _he_ hadn’t been to any of the purebloods’ gatherings. “Still not over the fact that your betrothal proposal was rejected, I see. How droll.”

“Now listen here, firstie, I’m a part of the-“

“Fancy toilet paper written by a clearly retarded old man, yes, I know,” Heri interrupted. “My family is listed there as well. _Unfortunately_. Now, are you getting somewhere, or did you disrupt our peaceful evening just to whine and rant in your misery? Which is of course befitting someone of your standing, I guess.”

“At least I’m not about to marry my own cousin!” Rowle growled, all propriety forgotten. Tom tensed, appalled at the idea of someone stealing Achernar from _his_ rightful place by Tom’s side.

“Hate to disappoint you, but me neither,” Heri drawled, flickering _his_ beautiful eyes at Tom, who discreetly breathed out in relief. “It will be Orion, actually. But he is lucky to not be there to endure your frustrated ramblings, isn’t he? I almost regret not being sent off to Durmstrang, if not for the fact that my dear Tom wouldn’t be there.”

“Ah, your mudblood friend?” Rowle eagerly latched onto the new topic. “How come he’s bewitched you to follow him around like a lap dog, I wonder?”

Hero’s entire demeanor shifted. _He_ no longer appeared bored out of his mind, looking enraged instead.

“Fancy a duel, Rowle?” _He_ hissed, not bothering to disguise _his_ demand under veneer of a request overly much.

“How you know about this tradition already? You are a first-year!” Someone exclaimed in the background.

“And also a Black. We’ve been there since the school was founded,” Heri smirked arrogantly. “So, Rowle, how about wiping the floor with poor, defenseless, inbred half-squib? Surely you’ll manage, what with being in your forth year and all. If you are lucky, perhaps even your offer will be reconsidered with, say, Araminta in mind.”

“As if I’d ever need someone’s illegitimate child on my family tapestry, pureblood or not,” Rowle sneered, staring down his nose at Tom, then turned back to Heri. “Though I suppose there’s no harm in indulging your masochistic tendencies, Black, especially since you’re so eager to jump to your rag doll’s defense. Not that he’d be good for anything other than keeping quiet and looking pretty, I’d wager.”

“Heri,” Tom began, but didn’t get a chance to finish.

“Oh no, I’ll handle it — after all, it was me whom he insulted first with that ridiculous insinuation that I’ve somehow let myself become _bewitched_. You may do the next one, if you wish.”

“Fair enough,” Tom conceded, trying to ignore the powerful urge to _hurttorturemaimbleed_ something.

“Well then, shall we?” Achernar smiled without warmth, hopping off the armrest (neither of the two of them had ever felt inclined to discuss their sitting arrangements, several empty spots be damned).

“You’re just a first year!” Some girl their age — probably Blishwick or something — gasped.

“He’s a Black!” Walburga retorted with a condescending sneer. “Surely he can handle some dim-witted offspring of the Rowle House.”

The crowd had gathered around them by now, including a fair amount of upper-years as well. Tom wasn’t exactly comfortable with such level of scrutiny, even less so with the fact that he didn’t fully understand what was happening — he’d got barely a gist, he imagined. But alas, it wasn’t like he could do anything about it right now.

“Should we get Professor Slughorn?” Someone hesitantly asked.

“No, I think not,” Dorea Black replied, for the first time since he’d known her looking tense and uncomfortable — and not at all for her little nephew’s well-being, he suddenly realized, but for something much more important instead. “I’m the Head Girl, I’ll be able to supervise just fine. In case both parties still insist on doing this, of course.”

“We do,” Rowle smirked cockily. Achernar nodded, projecting an air of absolute nonchalance.

“Very well,”Dorea sighed, resigned. “Let’s move it to the Dueling Chamber then.”

“First-years!” Carrow the Prefect (there was one more in second year) called out. “For those of you who aren’t Blacks, I suppose I shall explain the _secret_ tradition of Slytherin House that’s been kept from outsiders for generations upon generations. You see, due to the heavy prejudice we’ve been forced to take in stride from other Houses for many centuries, it had been decided that we are to present a united front.

“To achieve that level of mutual support, all the disputes among ourselves must be resolved swiftly and efficiently. And that’s basically the concept behind the Dueling. If you have any quarrel with one of your housemates and find yourself unable to settle it peacefully, you may challenge them to a duel.”

“And it’s not your usual strictly regulated duel that you might have witnessed at international competitions, mind you,” Flint took the reigns, leading the group deeper into the dungeons. “I find our rules better, by the way. The opponents fight until either one of them is no longer capable of lifting his or her wand — or restoring to other measures in case they possess some _special_ abilities. The only limitations that restrict your repertoire are directly killing spells and curses, and severely damaging ones — on ‘requires a trip to infirmary with a plausible excuse’ level. All three Unforgivables as well, since the school wards would be alerted immediately, and we certainly cannot have it, can we?”

“The Chamber is heavily warded, of course, but not _that_ heavily,” Carrow added. “Though rather significant part of Dark Arts is a fair game, so long as you don’t try to curse someone outside of these walls.”

As if on clue, the group reached an inconspicuous looking door that was no different from any other in the dungeons, except for a small snake engraving in its upper left corner.

“One of the first Gaunts to attend Hogwarts had warded it better than half of currently inhabited Manors,” Flint proudly announced. “Back when they weren’t a bunch of arrogant greasy squibs living in a hut yet. The entry is granted only to those who’re in possession of a Slytherin Prefect badge, or recognized by magic as our Head of House.”

The fifth-year proceeded to illustrate his claim by stepping closer to the snake, thus giving it a better access to see (or feel, or smell, or _whatever_ ) his polished badge. It hissed something hardly comprehensible (and vaguely threatening), but relented nonetheless.

The door opened without a sound, revealing several rows of stands, each one lower than the previous one, descending towards decently-sized circular stone floor with a slightly raised platform in the middle.

The Slytherins rushed inside (or as close to ‘rushed’ as their _proper_ upbringing would allow them), gathering around the stands. Tom had no trouble claiming one in the front row for his own, since the morons still considered him somewhat of a contagious disease.

 _All for the better_ , he thought vindictively, relishing the unobstructed view of Dorea Black and two duelists, who were situated just outside of the platform.

“I trust that both of you are well aware of the rules,” the Head Girl started, receiving an incredulous huff (Rowle) and an eye-roll (Achernar). “Good. However, allow me to remind you that nothing lethal is permitted. The consequences for breaking this clause will be most severe, as I hope you fully understand.”

“Oh for the love of benevolent Circe,” Heri sighed, exasperated. “I’m not quite as unhinged as you seem to believe, Dorea. Get on with it already.”

“I was referring to both of you, actually,” she retorted icily. “If you insist, though, please announce your stakes.”

“Reinstating of my betrothal contract,” Rowle stated smugly, not missing a bit. Dorea flinched, taken aback.

“I’m afraid that my nephew has no authority to accept such outrageous claims on behalf of our whole-“

“Oh please, none of that,” Heri interrupted. “I’m positive convincing uncle Pollux won’t be a problem in the event of Rowle’s victory. In case you don’t, though,” _he_ turned towards _his_ opponent, “I demand free access to your family library and permission to acquire _permanently_ a book of my choosing, even if it turns out to be a journal or a grimoire. You’ll be able to keep a copy of it, of course.”

“Achernar!” Dorea exclaimed. “This is unbelievable! You cannot engage in such high-staked duels over your little pet project!”

“I’m sorry, what are you talking about? I merely defend the honor of my darling cousin Walburga — and our whole family, might I add.”

“We both now that’s not true,” she sneered. “You could care less about our family name, too busy fussing over your _friend_ Riddle.”

“Be it as it may,” Heri smiled calmly, if a little deranged, “it’s not your place to decide on the terms of _my_ duel. You’re overstepping, Dorea. I’ll deal with uncle Pollux if it comes down to that, and it’s final. Just as I’ll deal with repercussions from Rowle House if I win.”

“Acceptable,” Rowle leered, not at all put off by such a prospect.

“I agree,” Dorea hissed through gritted teeth, sounding anything but. “You may take your positions, then.”

No sooner had the duelists stepped over the outer ring of the platform than the circle glowed with dozens of tiny runes. Just as they crossed the inner one, the whole room lit up for a moment, receding to a dim glow afterwards.

“The wards have been erected,” someone whispered, and Tom could bet that it was some sort of protection for those who were outside of the ring.

The duelists came to a stop and turned to face each other, divided by half of the arena. Rowle gave a short bow with apparent reluctance, adopting what Tom perceived as a dueling stance, then Achernar nodded mockingly, not bothering to adjust his posture at all.

Dorea, it seemed, didn’t find this demonstration inappropriate, for she announced impassively; “You may begin.”

All at once Rowle nonverbally sent some bluish-purple spell, and Heri’s wand slid down _his_ sleeve, allowing _him_ to cast a shield with a lazy flick. The spell skyrocketed, bursting in bright sparks upon collision with semi-translucent cupola of the ward.

Rowle didn’t give his opponent a chance to recover from blinding visual, sending several more spells in quick succession. Achernar, however, merely sidestepped them, not even bothering with a new shield.

“Come on, Rowle,” _he_ taunted. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at offense?”

The words resulted in series of viciously colored spells cast _his_ way with increasing power, but each of them missed.

It continued in the same fashion for several minutes, with Rowle firing off spell after spell and Heri either getting out of the way or deflecting them with curt slashing motions of _his_ wand when it couldn’t be avoided.

“Why don’t you fight, Black!?” Rowle barked, frustrated and starting to pant.

“Maybe because I don’t consider you worth fighting,” Heri smirked, not even breaking a sweat. “What do you think?”

 _His_ opponent growled, violently exploding in assortment of overpowered spells that flew faster than human eye could possibly register. The runic circle disappeared from view, concealed under cloud of dust and painfully bright sparks. The assault was so powerful that even the cupola visibly shook, but thankfully withstood the impact.

For a moment Tom couldn’t breath, almost positive that Heri didn’t stand a chance against this tremendous force and laid there bloodied and broken — if not worse. But then the cloud dissipated, and he could feel his lungs working again, staring in unadulterated awe at his lithe classmate.

For Achernar appeared just in the same spot where _he_ was before Tom’s vision became obscured, not a hair out of place.

A quick glance around proved that most Slytherins shared his reaction, and Rowle — oh, the bastard positively resembled a gaping fish. He was quick to recover, though, and _roared_ in outrage.

“ _Avada_ -“

“Oh no, none of that,” Achernar tutted in mock disapproval, eyes blazing. _His_ wand arm moved in an aborted arc, cutting _his_ opponent off mid-word. “Haven’t you heard the rules? No Killing Curses in this fine establishment.”

 _He_ didn’t stop there, however. The unholy glow in wide, crazed green eyes — the same color as Rowle’s unfinished curse — intensified. The air chilled, though it was somewhat muted by the ward, Heri’s shadow deepened and darkened, then faint intangible whispers followed, growing more solid (but no more discernible) with each passing moment.

The magic turned bitingly cold and oppressive, not confined to just the runic circle anymore. Everyone present began to tremble, Blacks included, though unlike Tom not in excitement, and then the shadows rapidly _moved_ , throwing themselves at pitifully cowering Rowle.

The forth-year screamed, high-pitched and desperate, on a single note, and didn’t seem to be about to stop any time soon. And Achernar just stood there and watched rapturously, devouringly, all pretense of semi-sanity forgotten.

Tom felt the same, as though it were him who held his housemate under a powerful torture curse.

“S-stop him,” Dorea Black, ashen-pale and terrified, tugged at his elbow with urgency. “Stop him before he does it again! We won’t be able to protect him anymore otherwise!”

Tom snapped out of his trance and jumped down on the floor, not bothering to ask how she envisioned him doing something to stop Achernar and not getting in the middle of it. She looked like she didn’t know it herself.

“Heri,” he murmured softly, coming to a halt just outside the barrier.

No response.

“Heri, stop! That’s enough!” He tried again more firmly, loud and clear. That seemed to do the trick, for the wonderful, magnificent creature in front of him snapped out of whatever it was with an unsteady step back, eyes dimming to more human color.

The shadows dissipated as if they were never there in the first place. Rowle abruptly stopped screaming and collapsed on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, a couple strands of his hair gray.

The runic circle slowly faded.

Achernar staggered down from the platform, swaying dangerously on _his_ feet, and flinched when Tom attempted to steady _him_. Tom halted, concern and hurt warring in his head — which was absurd, as he shouldn’t have been feeling any of this.

“That was some really Dark — _no, Black even_ — magic,” some upper-year offered hesitantly, breaking the heavy silence.

“Was it? I haven’t noticed,” deathly pale Achernar whispered softly with a bland smile, _his_ voice echoing through the room. The upper-year shuddered.

“So, well,” the shaken Head Girl coughed. “The winner is obviously Achernar Black.”

“Thank you, Dorea,” Heri replied, still not looking any closer to the world of the living, then gestured at the pitiful form of _his_ opponent. “There’s no need for mediwitch, he should be regaining consciousness on his own... I think. When he does, please inform him that I’ll approach the topic of retribution myself when I see fit.”

“Of course,” she nodded.

Seemingly satisfied, Achernar stumbled up the rows of stands and out of the Dueling Chamber, the crowds parting before him, not even sparing a glance towards Tom. He tried very hard not to feel offended — after all, there’d be plenty of time to discuss the incident tomorrow.

It turned out, the next day there wasn’t any such time at all, as well as the days that followed after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I have to inform you that starting with this chapter, I’ll be posting new updates as soon as I finish writing them, ‘cause I’ve run out of pre-made ones.  
> To that end, I’d also be delighted to read your suggestions on what you think should happen further on. I’ve got several half-written scenes for the whole Hogwarts course and beyond, as well as the basic outline of major future events and where I actually intend to lead this to, but it still leaves us with plenty of blank spots that are begging to be filled. I suppose I haven’t thought this thing through as thoroughly as I should’ve.  
> So, if you have any ideas, I’ll be happy to take them into consideration. Thank you for your continuous support, I love y’all <3


	6. Paradise Lost (And Found)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to be honest there; I’m not completely satisfied with this chapter (or more like ‘not imagining banging my head at the nearest wall due to my sheer inability to produce something passable’, since I’m never satisfied). However, I don’t wish to spend any more time trying in vain to work on it, so... here you are. It’s not too godawful, hopefully.  
> (And, well, it might correlate with the fact that I accidentally wiped out the already finished chapter like an amateurish idiot I so obviously am, but who knows, right? At any rate, I recreated it as best I could, though I distinctly remember the original being... well, bigger. Significantly. Not that I can for the life of me recall what it is that’s apparently missing now.)

Tom managed to corner Achernar in the dorms a week later.

“What is it?” He asked, irritated. “Please don’t tell me you’re acting like this because of what that dunderhead said.”

“No, of course not, I...” Heri started with affront, but visibly deflated. “He’s partially right, though. I’ve been spending an inordinate amount of time around you, and I haven’t even realized it until it literally spat in my face! Look, I don’t... I don’t _need_ any of this, not really. People are... complicated and bothersome. I have no intention to get close to anyone, and that’s exactly what almost happened without my conscious decision.”

“‘People are complicated’, you say. Are they now?” He sneered mockingly, disgusted with the very implication of Heri’s words. “Of course, you’re such a great judge of character, an unparalleled expert on things that would hurt or backstab you later on, what with being a sheltered pureblood from one of the most prominent families.”

“Tom, listen-“ _he_ attempted, having the audacity to look hurt, as if _he_ wasn’t the one breaking Tom’s heart even more right now.

“No, Heri, you listen!” He interrupted angrily. “You think I don’t know this? I dare say my expertise is far greater, considering the circumstances I’ve had a misfortune of growing up in. And yet I am not afraid, while you — you are just a fucking _coward_ who grovels under the pressure of expectations bestowed upon you as a member of the _Noble_ and _Most Ancient_ House of Black, as a part of your bigoted, deluded society! Very well then, suit yourself! I’ll leave you to spend the rest of your life in misery over your own hesitance and cowardice!”

He stormed off, fuming, not bothering to listen to false platitudes that Achernar tried to smother him in. Of course _he_ would be the same, just like this whole fucking magical world — a split image of the muggle one! Same prejudices, same falsehoods, same petty bullying, same everything!

Honestly, just how foolish Tom was to think any different!? Did he never learn?

No matter. He would show them all that he was better, more powerful and intelligent, more magnificent than anyone else. Than the rest of them combined, even!

_Than Achernar._

And _then_ — oh, then they would come crawling at his feet, all these pathetic, pitiful human shells, and _he_ would be the first among them. _His_ place wouldn’t be right beside him, despite the extreme magical prowess _he_ so obviously displayed. Oh no, _he_ would be beneath Tom, just like everyone else.

Because _he_ clearly was no better than the rest of humanity, and it hurt more than anything else ever did.

Tom angrily wiped away the traitorous tear that ran down his left cheek, choosing to pretend it never happened. Tom Marvolo Riddle did _not_ weep like some disgusting weakling, not even when he was being exorcised like some sort of bloody demon, and certainly not simply because some pompous pureblooded git rejected him.

He would never even slightly open up to another human being after this. Snakes were much better than people anyway, for they were simply incapable of betraying the one who spoke to them.

He would acquire one this coming summer, probably even pickpocket some muggle money and exchange it for galleons in order to afford a magical snake from the certain store in Diagon Alley, Dumbledore’s extreme reaction be damned.

He was not about to hide any of his talents anymore on a flat chance that he would be ostracized for them. Nobody here liked him anyway, so there was no point.

Well, not _all_ of his abilities, of course. Floundering around with nothing up one’s sleeve seemed simply... unwise.

Now, if only he could figure out the connection between himself and Achernar and severe or at least tune it down on his end.

And amplify on the other.

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

Of course his pipe dreams went flying right out the window the moment he finally uncovered what it was that existed — still tangible, if somewhat fragile — between himself and Achernar. It just changed _everything_!

Surely the other boy couldn’t possibly be aware of the exact nature of their bond, otherwise _he_ wouldn’t have been able to bring _himself_ to reject Tom so violently. It would’ve been a sacrilege, a true blasphemy — something that no pureblood would’ve ever been willing to commit.

Tom shoved away the traitorous thought that Achernar was in no way your average pureblood.

“We’re soulmates,” he couldn’t help but blurt out as soon as he’d basically stormed into the common room, grabbed unresponsive Achernar and tossed _him_ into his private bedroom, impatiently erecting the wards (and adding a couple extra for good measure).

“I know,” _he_ sighed.

“You... What am I thinking, of course you do. I should’ve at least suspected as much,” Tom laughed humorlessly, faking nonchalance through a pang somewhere deep in his chest. “Wait, is that the reason why you aren’t as affected as I am? Awareness of the fact somehow makes it... bearable?”

“What?” Heri — _no, Black_ — blinked. “No, that’s a different matter entirely. You see, I’ve been trained to mask and suppress my magic from an early age — something you’ve obviously never known to even attempt. It also dulls my perception somewhat, including our bond. In fact, I haven’t realized anything until that first night by the hearth, though part of me knew all along, of course.”

“Why would you do that to yourself?” Tom stared, the pain temporary forgotten in favor of concern.

“Because.”

“Just ‘because’?” He asked after it became abundantly clear that no elaboration was forthcoming. “I can’t imagine it not having any negative effect on your core. Come to think of it, you do if fact look livelier in my presence, obviously because of the bond. And if that doesn’t prove that you’re deeply affected by what you put yourself through-“

“You think I don’t know?” Heri interrupted, suddenly angry. “I’m perfectly aware, alright?”

“Then why-“

“And what, pray tell, would you have me to do instead?” He was once again cut off with such vicious condescension that he could barely refrain from lashing out in turn. “Walk around parading my not exactly subtle magic? I believe I’d prefer not to be killed on spot, thank you very much.”

“What!?” Tom exclaimed, flabbergasted and completely lost as to how their conversation winded up in this particular direction.

“Haven’t you seen it?” Heri asked rhetorically, bone-deep exhaustion seeping through _his_ every pore. Tom hadn’t noticed until now, but the other boy seemingly didn’t fare much better these past few days (the realization that didn’t bring him any satisfaction, surprisingly enough). “That first evening at the dorms, when I’ve let out but a small flicker of my power, reducing everyone present to pathetic trembling messes? Or later at the duel? Now, that might have been semi-intentional, but even when I simply mask my magic without suppression, it still can be felt by anyone with half a talent. Mudbloods and weak halfbloods most probably wouldn’t notice a thing, but that’s it.”

Tom blinked. Of course he noticed, but what did it have to do with anything?

Heri honest to god _groaned_ , as if exasperated. “Oh dear Celeste, don’t you get it? Fine, see for yourself!” With that said, it was as though some invisible weight had been lifted. The room chilled, but just as before, it didn’t feel threatening or even unpleasant, no, instead it felt almost like — _home_? Not that he knew what it was like, of course, the closest sensation he ever experienced was grasping his wand at Ollivander’s, or probably getting his very first glimpse of Hogwarts before the image of the castle was sullied with his peers’ antics.

Tom involuntary shuddered and half-closed his eyes, basking in this calming, lulling safety, _wholeness_.

As everything good in his life, it didn’t last.

“Mordred! How could I have forgotten that you are weird like that?” Heri cursed, reasserting the leash. _He_ probably didn’t take into account that now, when Tom knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was there, he could reach underneath and still feel the faintest tendrils of _his_ soothing power. “Impossible. No one ever feels comfortable in presence of my magic, it simply isn’t done.”

“Why are you surprised?” Tom chuckled. “We’re soulmates. I suspect you feel the same, however much you wish to deny that.”

“No, you don’t understand!” _He_ shook _his_ head frantically, for the first time since that fateful moment Tom laid his eyes on _him_ displaying (or more like experiencing) emotions so openly. “It shouldn’t work like that. I’m a necromancer, Riddle, _necromancer_! No one is supposed to react to me this way, it’s unnatural. Soulmate or not, you shouldn’t either, especially since we’ve made no effort to strengthen the bond, let alone complete it.

“And yes, I do feel the same, unfortunately. Your magic is... cold, but alluring and playful, in close proximity to myself at least. It coaxes mine out, bit by bit, but always stops before I begin to fight it in earnest.”

“Why do you insist on doing it?” Tom seized the opportunity to ask the most relevant question, ignoring the revelation of the exact nature of Heri’s magic for the time being. “What’s so wrong about bonding with me? I know you don’t really care about blood, at least until I turn into second Dumbledore and start frolicking with muggleborns and heralding the peaceful coexistence alongside the muggle world at every corner, which we both know won’t ever happen. And I’m probably the only one intelligent enough to keep up with you. Never mind the fact that we are fucking soulmates! It’s considered to be a rare gift, pure blessing from Magic itself, is it not? A perfect match for each other, which many would be envious for.”

“Circe, Riddle, ‘blessing’?” Heri laughed, an empty, hollow thing. “You sure have reached a whole new level of being dramatic, even more so than with those Gryffindor cretins. Really, how come you are so brilliant and just plain stupid at the same time? I wonder what sensationalist bullshit you’ve stumbled upon in the library to honestly believe that. We are merely exceptionally compatible in magic, mind and soul — unusual, yes, but not unheard of. There’s nothing more to it than that. Certainly no added bonuses for further exploit. I dare say we can perfectly well do without.”

“Fuck, just what is it that you find so repulsive about me?” Tom whispered with more feeling than he intended, all fight draining out of him in face of this — this total dismissal, cruel and cold.

“What?” _He_ blinked, taken aback, as if Tom hadn’t just voiced the most logical conclusion. “There’s nothing of the sort, of course! Why would you even... Oh, never mind. Listen, it’s...” Heri tried with such an earnest expression that _he_ almost looked like a different person altogether. “Really, it’s not that at all. You’re _perfect_ , Tom, every little detail about you is, even more questionable ones, and it... scares me. One day you’ll become greater than many men before you, and you’ll go places and achieve... things. Probably some wonderfully terrible ones, like Mordred’s revolution, because I know you aren’t patient enough to work from the inside. You’ll be constantly on everyone’s mind, even when you’re out of sight, and I don’t think I’m willing to deal with the implications of such a lifestyle. Not to mention that I’m not exactly comfortable with the idea of getting close to anyone at all, let alone someone so passionate and ambitious.”

“I see,” Tom said at length, now back to detached and calculating outlook, far more familiar than those pathetic emotional outbursts that’d make a five-year-old proud. “And yet you’ve jumped to my defense on All Hallows’ Eve, despite knowing full well what it would entail, and after that almost exposed yourself on my behalf. Well, go on with your pitiful denial all you want, then. We’ll see how long you’re going to last.”

“I’m pretty stubborn, in case you haven’t noticed,” Heri remarked, though didn’t deny anything outright. _Good_ , Tom thought, _it means_ he _knows just as I do that_ his _struggles are futile._

“Me as well, darling, me as well,” he smirked with a hint of vindictive glee before tearing down the wards and wandlessly opening the door to let his interlocutor out. Despite the unpleasant moments, all in all he felt like he’d just went through some pretty important argument — milestone — of their relationship and came out victorious.

Heri would crawl back where _he_ belonged once _he_ processed _his_ inability to survive separation, now that the forbidden fruit had already been tasted. Tom was sure of it.


	7. Me Against the World

“...thus leading general populace to believe in his extreme magical prowess and gaining large following in span of few months...”

Professor Binns was honestly the worst that could happen if one intended to grasp the intricacies of wizarding history for the past several millennia — or get a basic gist of it even. No wonder purebloods despised any and all new arrivals who didn’t have a clue about sheer longevity and magnificence of their culture.

Through no fault of their own, of course, but that didn’t seem like a good enough excuse to those who were brought up on countless tales of the glorious past.

Not that Tom could exactly blame them, on second thought, considering he himself didn’t have all that much trouble locating and perusing books on actual history, and anyone with half a brain would have been able to do just that and reduce the gap formed by eleven years in entirely different culture at least partially.

(Though even Ravenclaws didn’t seem all that keen on fitting in, but maybe they had their own library in the Tower, or established something like tutoring.)

But still. Students weren’t usually expected to go out of their way to study something entirely on their own, as far as Tom was concerned. Surely a Professor for one of the core subjects could do better than this.

“...up until his defeat at the hands of Egbert the Egregious in 1102, who opted against the continuous crusade of Dark forces, efficiently ending the four years long rebellion. The remaining followers of Emeric the Evil were dealt with shortly afterwards, and the world once again got a chance to rebuild and flourish in peace,” Binns droned on and on, his voice alone far more potent than highest-quality Valium.

Why they suddenly jumped from Hogwarts foundation to some low-key Dark Lord with a supposedly ‘unbeatable’ wand (which clearly wasn’t the case) was anyone’s guess. Tom gave up on questioning it weeks ago, focusing more on his extracurricular studies instead.

After all, there were more than enough discrepancies in this brave new world to last several lifetimes, and he’d risk losing his mind if he didn’t learn to let it go early on.

Tom hissed, suddenly cutting his finger on a page of thick leather-bound tome with hand-written accounts on Witch Hunts, and noticed Achernar jerking at the sound out of the corner of his eye. He huffed, refusing to acknowledge his unbelievably stubborn soulmate, and turned back to the book.

And for a moment promptly forgot how to breathe, because the text slowly morphed right under his perplexed gaze, starting with the very spot that was christened by his blood.

“Blood magic,” he involuntary whispered, though barely audibly so as not to attract any attention. His head spun with all the implications of such discovery, and he had to make an effort to force down the rush of giddiness.

Tom was smart enough, of course, to understand the danger posed in form of the innocuous book, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to feel apprehensive in the slightest. Breathless anticipation coiled tightly in his stomach instead.

The letters finished morphing, and he delved right into hungrily devouring _Magicks Moste Potente_ , not even noticing when the bell rang, indicating the end of class.

“Riddle?” Someone touched his shoulder, and it took him several seconds to realize it was Heri. _He_ never sounded so hesitant before. “Tom, the class is over, you’d better pack and leave before the idiot notices you’ve paid zero attention to his blubbering.”

Tom resurfaced back to reality with a jerk, blinking violently to dispel the remnants of his almost trance-like state. He looked around, and indeed the other students were already gone, leaving the two of them alone with the barmy Professor, who didn’t seem to even register the presence of Slytherins, elbows deep in his stupid, meaningless notes as he was.

It was the most intimate encounter with ever-reclusive Achernar Tom got since their argument fifteen days ago.

Not that he kept count, of course. Tom Marvolo Riddle was above such things.

“Right,” he nodded, frowning at the contemplating, dubious look Achernar was appraising his book with. “Thank you, _Black_. I’ll be on my way then.”

He resolutely ignored the minuscule flinch at the sound of _his_ last name, pretending to be too busy with packing his belongings. Did the empty formality appear foreign to _him_ too? Tom sure hoped so.

But then again, Achernar could easily end it any time _he_ wanted by simply giving in. Alas, it had yet to happen, and this delay merely served to anger Tom more with each passing day.

What frustrated him most was the fact that they both knew how the issue would be resolved in the end, and the only thing that prevented Tom from basking in contentment was Heri’s deplorable mulish stubbornness. It would have been a truly admirable trait, if applied to something actually important.

“Well, I suppose I’ll be going,” he repeated, realizing that they’d been staring at each other for who knew how long like two idiots.

“Wait,” Heri protested weakly, with no real conviction behind his words. Tom paused for a moment, but nothing followed, and with an irritated huff he left the classroom, trying to convince himself that he didn’t just hope for anything at all, or at least look the part.

_He_ didn’t attempt to stop him again.

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

“Riddle!” One of his pursuers exclaimed, frustrated.

“Perhaps he’s just too arrogant and self-centered to wait for his housemates,” the other suggested, snickering like a goddamned hyena. Tom forced himself not to show any outward reaction, not even quickening his pace.

After all, these two upper-years weren’t first Slytherins to pick on him since Heri — _Black_ — cowardly abandoned him, and they wouldn’t be the last.

_Just one more week_ , he reminded himself, _one more week until the winter break_.

Surely most — hopefully all — of his House would depart for their cozy, wonderful homes for holidays then. They had a privilege of possessing large, wealthy, _loving_ families that eagerly awaited them, jumped at a chance to smother them in presents and affections.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, a lonely orphan with questionable origins and no one to care for him, would have the dungeons all to himself for weeks.

The moronic duo caught up to him when the common room was just around the corner.

Tom hissed upon sudden impact with the stone floor, not anticipating the curse. They never got physical with him before — the only upside of their ridiculous, irrational fear of contamination, he supposed. Or ‘lowering themselves to the likes of filthy mudbloods’, as they preferred to put it.

“Are you expected somewhere, disgrace?” One of the bullies sneered. “Oh wait, there’s no one who tolerates you, including your own parents. Even the insane Black realized he was unable to put up with your filth at long last.”

Tom let out a shuddering exhale, trying to reign in his anger. He knew he was no match for these two in open confrontation. _Yet._

And if he was, he couldn’t afford to fight back and cause the entirety of Slytherin to unite against him. That would result in violent, full-blown war — or slaughtering, more likely. Wars were never meant to be won by a single person, no matter how talented.

They mistook his rage for a sign of fear, and proceeded to mock him further for that, not forgetting to throw in a handful of mostly harmless, purely humiliating spells.

He’d prefer a Cruciatus over this.

Tom clenched his teeth, resolved to endure his housemates’ antics and get back at them at an opportune time. They didn’t matter. Nothing, _no one_ mattered, so long as he didn’t have to return to the dreadful existence at the orphanage he’d led prior to discovering his birthright.

They would rue the day they decided to cross him soon enough, anyway.

After the abuse was over Tom spent almost an hour in an abandoned classroom not far from the common room. He wasn’t hiding, of course — merely countering the spells to the best of his ability and then strengthening his mask, that’s all. He did _not_ dread the return to jeers and sneers of immature children that he had a misfortune of sharing his living space with.

They were meaningless. Nothing more than specks of dirt at his feet. Their antics couldn’t possibly hurt him after eleven years in muggle orphanage, environment far more vicious and cruel in the aftermath of the War than these spoiled, sheltered kids could ever imagine.

He was better off without the hindrance that putting up with his peers would have presented.

He was better than them, _superior_. Distant and untouchable, raising above all. He merely had to demonstrate it once and for all, when due time came.

He ignored his barely audible sigh of relief upon entering the safety of his warded bedroom, as well as unwilling gratitude to the one who’d introduced him to this field of magic.

He had better things to concentrate on than Achernar Black. The mysterious history book, for instance.

Tom wandlessly summoned a couple of floating lights, pricked his finger with a needle that he’d stolen from Transfiguration class and set to work, quickly losing himself in the precious knowledge bestowed upon him by some unknown medieval wizard. The fact that the manuscript more closely resembled a journal than an actual textbook did not disappoint him in the slightest.

Two days later a fifth-year Slytherin, who also happened to be quite a persistent tormentor of Tom’s, was bitten by a venomous snake that suddenly launched from Forbidden Forest. Everyone was baffled and wrote it off as yet another bizarre accident — such occurrences were not unusual for the highly-populated magical castle. And if one Albus Dumbledore watched a first-year Slytherin like a hawk afterwards — well, it wasn’t like he had any proof of his ridiculous claims.

The last few days before the break went in a blur, and then Tom was finally free to roam the dungeons at his leisure, just as he anticipated. He’d never felt so content in his life.

(If he repeated it enough times in his head, maybe he’d believe it.)

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

Tom stared suspiciously at the rectangular object wrapped in intricate crimson paper, its color closer resembling blood than Gryffindor banner. He blinked and even pinched himself just to be sure that he wasn’t still dreaming. 

The object remained where it was, right under the giant Christmas — _or Yole_ — tree. 

God, who on earth would send him a present? It didn’t make any sense whatsoever. 

Slughorn? Unlikely. 

_Perhaps Achernar_ , his traitorous mind whispered. Tom vehemently perished the thought. 

He continued to study the innocent-looking package for a few minutes longer, with such intensity that he wouldn’t have been surprised if it suddenly burst in flames. No such thing happened, of course, for he had better control over his wandless abilities. 

In the end he was able to convince himself that the problem wouldn’t solve itself, and cautiously approached the... _thing_. Never one to put much stock in some stranger’s kindness, Tom proceeded to cast each and every detection spell that he knew of, and came up blank. 

It still didn’t matter much, of course, since he wasn’t arrogant enough to assume that he would be able to discover everything on his current rather modest level, but there wasn’t anything he could do about it at the moment. 

He put on his dragonhide potions gloves for good measure, and then cautiously unwrapped the package, prepared to jump away at the first sign of something nasty. Nothing happened, and the paper revealed a dark leather-bound tome with no title underneath. 

He turned the cover and involuntary relaxed the moment his eyes fell on the inscription. Simple ‘I apologize’, without any name below. Not that there was any need for one, since Tom obsessively memorized Heri’s elegant handwriting to the point when he could recreate it in his sleep if he so wished. 

He shouldn’t have felt relieved — _safe_ — immediately upon discovery, considering their fallout, but he did nonetheless. And he didn’t have time to berate himself for such inappropriate, foolish carelessness, because just then the title of the book itself finally caught up to him. 

_Introduction to Blood Magic, by Phoebe Black._

Tom shakily exhaled, unwilling to believe in his good fortune in case it suddenly evaporated right in front of him. But no, the priceless treasure wasn’t going anywhere, patiently waiting for its new master to get his bearings. 

Hesitantly, Tom smiled, the motion foreign on his face, and gently caressed Achernar’s words. He imagined the other boy picking up a quill and biting the right corner of _his_ lower lip, like _he_ was prone to do whilst deep in thought, before deciding on the shortest inscription possible, merely to hint at the sender. 

“I forgive you, I think,” he whispered softly, his voice echoing in the empty common room. He didn’t want to go easy on the one who caused him so much grief, but he couldn’t help it. Achernar, it seemed, would always remain the sole exception to his wrathful temper, no matter what _he_ did. 

Short of open hostility or active betrayal, hopefully. 

Tom picked up the book, disregarding the implications behind such peculiar choice of present for the time being, and hurriedly returned to his secure room, forgoing the breakfast. Nothing could possibly be more important than a study in one of the most controversial (and forbidden) branches of magic, written by a member of the family of its notorious practitioners. 

It was rumored that the Blacks were so well-versed in the field that it even evolved in genetic predilection — or family magicks, as purebloods preferred to call it. Tom wasn’t about to pass up such an opportunity, starving or not. 

He took his time making himself comfortable under still warm blankets, resolutely containing his excitement, and only then cracked the book open once again. He lost a couple more minutes, unable to resist possessively tracing Heri’s handwriting with his fingertips, before he remembered himself and turned the page. 

“Oh,” he breathed in astonishment. “I do forgive you, my treasure.” 

The book started with ‘I welcome you on your first journey towards the unknown, young Heir of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black’, after all. It was even more priceless than he first thought. 

Any rightful concerns about Achernar witnessing (and correctly interpreting) the incident during History of Magic momentarily ceased to plague Tom’s mind. What did it matter, really, if it earned him such a wondrous gift? 

With a deeply satisfied, almost affectionate smile Tom eagerly dived right into the precious knowledge trove, all lingering traces of resentment quickly forgotten. 

If all Heri’s apology gifts were this wonderful, he might just let _him_ abandon Tom again. For a short while. 

On second thought, he had no intention of ever setting the other boy free. 

****HPLVHPLVHPLV** **

By the time the rest of the student body was due to arrive back at Hogwarts Tom wasn’t even half through the Blood Magic book, the same as the one from the library (excluding elaborate entries and self-centered bragging about surviving in the middle of Witch Hunts and subsequently yet another Dark rebellion), much to his annoyance, for both were unfortunately way beyond his current ability and understanding of magical theory. He did manage to at least check if the library book somehow cursed or enthralled him through his blood, and thankfully came out clean. 

It appeared as though the magic within it responded to that which was reflected through the reader’s blood, and if it met a certain number of requirements, the text transformed. These requirements included the size, potential and present, of magical core, its affinity, level of control (probably to awoid bestowing priceless knowledge upon sniveling brats), as well as the actual density of magic in blood. The latter, Tom found out, supposedly served to distinguish muggleborns from ‘real wizards’, which posed a whole new question about his origins. Tom suspected that he wasn’t a muggleborn, of course, but knowing for sure was a relief. 

Unless it turned out that his abilities reawakened in him after who-knew-how-many generations between some squib ancestor and himself, which he hypothesized was the case for most wizards and witches known as muggleborns. After all, he had no way of either proving or disproving the theory about significant difference in concentration of so-called _magus copulae_ in blood of muggleborns and everyone else. He preferred not to think about such a possibility, for his studies proved that at least some of pureblood prejudices were actually sound — like large influxes of non-magical blood significantly lowering down general power levels with each generation, thus resulting in complete loss of hereditary abilities. He didn’t want to turn out to be lesser. 

Though the fact remained that inbreeding was just another side of the same coin that bore similar results. The conclusion that these purebloods were apparently unable to reach. 

It still didn’t explain why sometimes incest led to degeneracy, as expected, while others (like infamous Blacks) seemed only more powerful and aesthetically pleasing for it. Probably some aspect of Blood Magic that he wasn’t aware of yet. 

If that was true, however, it certainly served to further explain the Dark families’ general disdain towards Ministry’s policies and restricting legislations, as well as their inability — unwillingness — to adjust to the changing world outside of their close-tied conclaves, and the steady decay as the direct result of all of the above. Not everyone was influential and wealthy enough to afford to flounder their blatant disrespect for newly-passed laws as Blacks did, after all. 

Which reminded him that he probably had to _thank_ one of those in particular. And somehow test the waters pertaining to their standing around each other without coming off as obvious, or god — _Merlin_ — forbid, _needy_. 

Pretending to read in the common room during students’ arrival was the best way to go at it, he supposed. His willingness to spend the evening in the open might still seem odd, of course, but not enough as to warrant any extra attention (hopefully). 

Determined, Tom proceeded to do just that, trying to throttle the incessant hope that was flattering around in his chest. It was better not to wait for something with baited breath, lest the very possibility of it happening proved itself futile and crushed him in the process. 

He managed to reign in his ridiculous, childish impulses until the enchanted wall shifted to reveal a flock of animated Slytherins from all years, with Achernar unexpectedly standing in one of the first rows. With the air of ingrained arrogance of someone of the highest social standing amongst everyone present, _he_ casually strolled towards Tom’s corner of the room and perched atop the armrest like the last few weeks didn’t happen at all, ignoring their housemates’ gawks and stunned disbelief. 

Tom couldn’t help but let a tiny smile grace his lips. 


	8. Let Me In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dears. I’m very, very sorry that I’ve abandoned you all like this. My real life has taken a dramatic turn for worse, if you were wondering.  
> Anyway, I hope you are still following this story, and will be willing to put up with sporadic updates for a while longer. Before you proceed with this new chapter, however, please note that I’ve changed something near the end of the previous one about the library book with blood magic. It’s no longer written, and therefore accessed, by Slytherin’s descendants only. From now on it reveals its secrets to anyone with dark affinity and large enough magical core, which allows me to introduce a new plot twist, as well as a different approach in Tom’s quest for discovering his lineage.  
> Thanks for sticking up with me, y’all are wonderful.

“What brought this on, Black? Or shall I call you Heri from now on, _again_?” Tom inquired with barely half as much hostility as he intended after making sure that his area-wide privacy charm was flawless and powerful enough to not be torn down easily.

“Should I leave then, if it bothers you so much?” Heri pleasantly retorted, not opening _his_ half-closed eyes.

“Now, now, I didn’t say that, did I?” Tom smirked, feeling the tension melt from his shoulders.

“I dare say you did not,” Heri agreed. “Did you miss me?”

“Did you?”

“Your observational skills astound me,” _he_ smiled, slumbering further into Tom’s seat almost to the point of being indecent. “My relatives were as opulent as always — meaning droll, dull, boring, vexing, exhausting, or any other synonym I cannot be bothered to come up with. Somehow, memories of you were my sole reprieve during the whole tiresome ordeal — apart from riling them up, of course. Though don’t expect me to admit to it ever again, lest you be faced with disappointment.”

“I’ve spared a thought or two for you, too. Especially on the Boxing Day,” Tom confessed. He wasn’t exactly angry at Heri anymore, of course, but his own complacency irked him still, and he wasn’t about to give his mercurial _friend_ such a leverage.

“I imagine you did,” _he_ sighed in self-satisfaction, then frowned. “Wait, Boxing Day? What is it, some muggle thing? I thought they replaced Yule with Christmas.”

“Yes, they did. It’s just a part of the festivities,” Tom assured. “The day when they exchange presents. Don’t you have any assumed term for that, too? I’ve read nothing of the sort, but books rarely contain all the information on the subject there is.”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous,” Heri scoffed. “Who would need an entire day for that anyway? We exchange gifts right after the Midwinter ritual. To your information, it used to be like that in Hogwarts too, up until a couple of decades ago. Old Ways are pushed back more severely these days, unfortunately. At least they haven’t prohibited any major practices from being held in the privacy of our own homes yet.”

“I imagine that would cause a massive uproar, even among traditionally neutral families. They couldn’t have it, could they?” Tom reasoned. “And you got it wrong, by the way. About muggles, I mean.”

“Did I? Enlighten me then.”

“Why? There’s hardly any point,” Tom frowned in open befuddlement, inwardly cursing himself and his running mouth. So what if Heri thought that muggles did nothing but opened presents all day long? It wasn’t like such a mistake was in any way important. “I am not a part of their culture anymore, if I’ve ever been to begin with, and obviously neither are you. It’s just that it’s hard to avoid these meaningless things when you grow up in a Catholic orphanage.”

Heri’s easy smile was gone in an instant, as if washed off by a surge. _He_ stilled.

“Heri?” He inquired uncertainly, having no idea what was wrong. He highly doubted that his mostly apathetic interlocutor would feel offended by his reluctance to impart some knowledge about muggles of all things.

“Catholic orphanage, you say?” _He_ slowly responded at last, eerily calm. “Tell me, Tom. Did they try to exorcise you?”

Tom’s whole body went rigid, his face ashen pale, before he could even think of attempting to conceal his reaction. Anyone with half a brain would’ve found it telling enough, never mind someone as smart and observant as Achernar.

Silver chandeliers all throughout the common room exploded at once, snapping Tom out of his worst memory.

“Heri!” He rasped with the desperate urgency of a person who’d just been outrunning a nightmare, his hands leeching onto his counterpart’s shoulders in a bid to forcibly return _him_ to his senses. “Heri, calm down! Stop! _Please_.”

In the blink of an eye the heavy, bitingly cold well of magic, probably stronger than his friend ever let out before, suddenly retreated — evaporated — as though it never were there. Heri shakily exhaled, with a crooked, ill-fitting smile murmured, “Huh, I never would’ve thought you capable of uttering this word with any margin of sincerity,” and then promptly went out like a light, falling straight into Tom’s arms. He was barely able to catch _him_ on time.

Heri was by no means an embodiment of health, not with his pallor and small, weak, easily tiring body, but _he_ had never before resembled a corpse quite as profoundly either.

Tom had no bloody idea what to do, since the Medical Wing was surely out of question.

Thankfully, it turned out he didn’t have to. Their privacy charm was dismantled from the outside at an alarming speed, letting in deathly pale Dorea Black.

“I don’t want to know what you said, Riddle,” she hissed, not glancing from the limp form of her nephew for a second, “but you _will_ help me now, before anyone rubs their deficient brain cells together and decides to call Slughorn.”

Tom swallowed the biting retort and nodded. “Of course. What shall I do?”

“You’ll have to... carry him to bed. Without a levitation charm,” the Head Girl grimaced. “He never responds kindly to foreign magic when he is like this, though hopefully my notice-me-not will hold long enough,” she performed some wand gesture in the direction of the dorms, then motioned for him to proceed.

Tom gently lifted Heri’s head to stand up, then picked the other boy up bridal-style and tentatively took a step forward.

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

Tom sneaked back in Heri’s room as soon as _his_ aunt left it, beside himself with worry. His mind ran a mile a minute, trying to decipher what exactly had transpired in the common room.

Surely a pureblood from Black family couldn’t possibly have any experience with _muggle exorcism_ of all things, right? And yet, it was the only logical conclusion Tom could draw.

Come to think of it, despite regarding the concept of blood purity with relative indifference, his secretive friend never spoke of muggles with anything other than open hostility. Tom never _truly_ noticed it, most probably because it went along usual pureblood agenda and seemingly didn’t at all differ from any other Slytherin’s opinion, but it was, in fact, distinctly different. While their housemates spoke without any real heat, simply reciting what they’d heard at home and having no actual experience with the subject, Heri... _he_ hated muggles so passionately, _personally_ , that there was no way _he_ hadn’t had at least one unpleasant encounter with them.

It sounded utterly impossible, Tom knew, but there was no other way. Achernar _Black_ , of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, had encountered muggles at some point in _his_ not exactly long life.

Not that it mattered much at the moment. Tom made, of course, a mental note to bring it up sometime in the future, as any knowledge he wasn’t privy to simply didn’t sit well with him, but his primary concern laid with the issue of Heri’s health. Come to think of it, this incident was in no way first in the row of inexplicable, violent magical outbursts on Heri’s part.

_Something is definitely not right_ , he thought with no small amount of dread.

“Tom?” He heard the faint whisper that quickly dissolved into coughing.

“Here, drink some water,” Tom jumped to attention, picking up a glass from the bed stand and bringing it to Heri’s parched lips.

“Thank you,” came a weak gratitude.

“How are you feeling?” Tom implored, keenly observing every minuscule twitch of muscle on Heri’s exhausted face. “Dorea also left some potion.”

His soulmate frowned. “Dorea? Don’t tell me it was her who carried me in there.”

“No, it was me, actually,” Tom replied, not understanding what was the issue. He put the empty glass back on the bed stand and continued; “But she was there, if that’s what you’re worried about. She distracted other Slytherins to give me enough time to transport you safely and prevented them from going to Slughorn.”

“Mordred!” Heri grimaced. “She must’ve already sent an owl to my father, no doubt. He won’t let me live it down for ages, perhaps he’ll even try to force me into homeschooling — _again_.”

“He _what_!?” Tom exclaimed, flinching so violently he almost fell from the chair. He couldn’t imagine Hogwarts without his friend there to suffer alongside him.

“Calm down, will you?” Heri snapped. “As I said, _try_. That’s the keyword. He hasn’t succeeded to this day, and he won’t manage now. It’s merely going to be unpleasant.”

“But why would he-“

“Because he doesn’t like the fact that I’m running around unsupervised, possibly endangering myself. The only reason I’m not actually in Durmstrang is that it’d be impossible for my relatives to timely swap in in case of emergency, while here at Hogwarts it’d be painstakingly easy. Though even this arrangement still doesn’t sit well with him, because he is under the impression that now I have limitless possibilities for... violent reactions.

“And while that may be true, I’d go mad if had to stay cooped up in the Manor any longer. Well, madder.”

“Alright,” Tom nodded slowly. “Frankly, I prefer you where you are-“

“Of course you do,” Heri muttered sarcastically, but with underlying fondness.

“But,” Tom went on as if he weren’t interrupted in the first place, “that’s not what I came here to discuss, and you know it. Will you please stop this, now?”

“Stop what?” Heri blinked, half heartedly trying for an ‘innocent befuddlement’ look.

“ _This_!” Tom gestured emphatically, as if to encompass something intangible. “Each and every time we get to something important, or when there’s even a slightest possibility of broaching such a topic, you become uncomfortable and deflect with a tidbit on your life before me, or something about your family, or information on wizarding practices. All of that sounds significant, when in truth is nothing but smoke of which one cannot make heads or tails without context, simply illusion of sharing. And though I know what you’re doing, I cannot help but be curious to an extent and let it all slide, the original issue included. It’s went on long enough, I’d say.”

“Well, I cannot say you are entirely wrong, but that’s not what begs attention in your little impromptu speech, I’m afraid,” his smug bastard of a friend smiled cruelly. “‘My life before you’, was it? Tell me, my dear, do you presume to hold such a great impact on the course of my life to warrant this sort of arrogant figures of speech?”

Two could play this game.

“I’d hardly label it such,” he smiled just as sweetly. “More like truth, if your words earlier in the common room were anything to go by. Your ‘sole reprieve’, was it? You cannot deny how much sway I have over your very existence, no matter how badly you wish to run for reasons yet unknown. It’s alright, my _soul_ , it’s mutually assured destruction. But only if we let it.”

“Really, Riddle, ‘let it’? Gods, can you get any more dramatic?” Heri scoffed, shaking his head — and minutely wincing from the movement. “Never mind. I trust you speak of physical death then. Of course, that’s only to be expected from someone with such strong but uncertain standing on the subject.”

“I know that you are far from struggling with the concept of physical death, Heri, and I also know that you know that’s not what I meant. You don’t even care about death of one’s self as much as I do, despite you hinting on it right about now. Still, it’s only a matter of perspective. It can be completely void of any negative connotations if we so wish it. You are merely afraid to let me in closer than anyone’s ever been, understandably, and of how much you truly want this. Perhaps even succeeding in convincing yourself that it’s nothing more than the soul bond, magic beyond your reach that doesn’t allow you any say in the matter,” he laughed humorlessly, with a hint of mockery.

“Isn’t it? And why aren’t you?”

“Because I’m past the point of being afraid, my soul,” he stated simply, as though it meant nothing substantial. “I welcome it. Before you and after you, there’s nothing else.”

Heri took a shuddering breath, for a moment looking on the verge of breaking down, then suddenly threw himself in Tom’s arms. He caught _him_.

“And no, it most certainly is not just the bond,” he went on, relishing in the feeling of lithe, fluid, warm, _Heri’s_ body against his own, of contentment settling into his very bones almost as if it were a tangible thing. The fact that nothing short of miracle prevented them both from collapsing on the floor came and went as an afterthought. “Heri, you are a singular being. Fascinating. Exhilarating. You are more brilliant than anyone I’ve ever met, except for myself. I would’ve found a way to break this supposedly unbreakable bond otherwise.”

“I know you would have, Tom,” Heri whispered, clinging to him even tighter.

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

“I can see why you are a Slytherin after all,” Tom offered some time later, when they’d already somehow managed to relocate to the bed, in unspoken agreement not breaking their embrace even for a moment.

“Really?” Heri perked up from his shoulder. “What have you pegged me for?”

Tom hummed. “A Ravenclaw, perhaps. Hard to tell, to be honest, what with the way you don’t exactly fit any of the Houses. Though I guess Gryffindor or Hufflepuff is about as far from your personality traits as one could reasonably get and then some.”

“Fair enough,” Heri shrugged, not bothered in the least by _his_ apparent lack of goodness. “Though Ravenclaw, really? What could’ve possibly given you that impression? Had you not been lamenting my marks at least every other day when we were regularly talking to each other?”

“We both know it has nothing to do with your intellectual capacity and everything to do with your lack of enthusiasm and motivation,” Tom retorted with a snort. “And I think you aren’t reclusive and self-unaware enough to fail to at the very least notice that you are significantly more knowledgeable than any other first year, and in some aspects more than upper years as well.”

Heri snickered, unsuccessfully muffling the sound in Tom’s shoulder. “Oh my, Riddle, did you just admit out loud someone else’s superiority over yourself? I hope it didn’t hurt overly much.”

“Heri-“

“Alright, alright,” _he_ chuckled. “I concede your point. And I understand how my utter lack of any form of ambition could’ve thrown you off.”

“I wouldn’t say that precisely.”

“Hmm?” Heri perked up once again. _His_ face was close enough to notice that some of the color was already returning, which was good. “What is it that I strive for, then?”

“I’m not sure,” Tom admitted with no small amount of reluctance. “But there must be something. Every time I look into your eyes I see but a glimpse of it, but it’s there.”

“Oh,” Heri intoned softly, lowering _his_ head back as if to hide _his_ perfect emeralds from view — not that there was much to be seen in flickering yellow glow of a single candle on the bed stand. “You’d be delighted to unravel it all, I imagine.”

“Of course,” Tom easily agreed. “Any hints, perhaps?”

“Well... The Hat hasn’t hesitated with my placement. No other option at all.”

“Truly? I seem to recall that you’ve spent under it quite a while.”

Heri smirked. “Oh, it’s sweet how you paid undue attention to me even then. But it was nothing, really. The Hat just wanted to chat.”

“To chat,” Tom parroted flatly. 

“Why yes!” Heri confirmed with relish. “What can I say? I’m a rather captivating person, am I not? I’ve managed to fetch you, after all.”

“That you did,” Tom chuckled softly, burying his hand in Black’s unruly locks. Heri honest to God _purred_ , and the moment couldn’t have possibly been more fortunate for broaching the subject he was actually after, _again_ , and make absolutely sure Heri wouldn’t have any leeway to deflect it.

He held Heri tighter as if to illustrate his response, but in reality just restricting _his_ range of motion — after all, he wouldn’t put it past his ever-elusive obsession to just wiggle out of his lap and run away, half-dead or not. “So, are you ready to talk about your health, at long last? Too bad if you aren’t, because I’m not letting you distract me again.”

Heri sighed, visibly deflating further into the embrace. “You know that necromancy is severely banned, right?” He asked, sounding resigned.

“Of course. But what does this have-“

“And you must also realize that such a circumstance would hardly be enough to prevent people from learning and practicing it,” Heri went on, ignoring the interruption. “So why, then, don’t we hear about hordes of raised inferi and bound spirits emerging out of the woodwork every once in a while? It’s a rare affinity, yes, but not _that_ rare, especially abroad.”

“When you put it like this...” Tom frowned, thinking it through. “I honestly just assumed that it’s because of the governments that hunt down and eliminate the so-called ‘threats’ in infancy with extreme prejudice. I thought your isolation and notorious family name were the only reasons you were spared from such a gruesome fate. But there’s more to it, isn’t there?”

“Oh, yes. You are partially right, of course — it does happen the way you describe it, and my House was indeed most helpful in keeping me from such harm. But Ministries and and other governing structures aren’t the worst enemy of a fledgling necromancer. Their magic is.”

“What?” Tom blinked.

Heri heaved a heavy sigh. “My magic is... unstable, as you may have noticed. It happens to all of my kind without exception, actually. Those of us who haven’t fallen into Ministries’ clutches are still cut down by their own magic more often than not. Our power, vicious and uncontrolled, literally tears us apart from the inside without a proper outlet. And such an outlet is hard to come by, as you can imagine, what with all those pesky detectors of certain magicks. Not to mention, the knowledge on the subject is inconsistent at best, considering the repeated crusades against necromancy, the latest of which underwent under the guise of witch hunts a few centuries ago. Priceless grimoires and artifacts have been lost to flames, never to be restored again.”

“But you are a Black! Surely-“

“I’m not saying that I’ve got nothing to go on,” he was waved off, “merely that it could be better. Or much worse, of course, since I was indeed fortunate enough to be born into the House of Black. We _do_ possess some knowledge — probably far more than any other British, or European even, House might claim. Anyway, the point is that it’s still not enough to guarantee my survival past the age of maturity. From where I’m standing, it’s rather likely that I won’t live a day longer than seventeen. Oh, and it’s another reason for us to refrain from actual bonding. It would be difficult for you to retain your sanity — and quite possibly life — otherwise.”

Tom’s insides instantly turned cold, something hot and tight clang to the back of his throat. The desperate hug — more like stranglehold — that followed was bone-crushing, but Heri didn’t seem to care one bit about the pain _he_ was definitely in, hugging back as tightly as _he_ could manage from the position _he_ was in.

Oh, but Heri _did_ fear death after all. _He_ merely had years upon years to resign himself to the inevitability that it would come, fast and brutal. How hard must it have been to know that there was nothing _he_ could do to survive past the very first glimpse of adulthood, never having a chance to experience anything the world had to offer, to accomplish any of _his_ plans and dreams — or even dare to think them up?

Tom had never loathed the concept of dying more than he did in this moment.

“I’m touched by your concern for my wellbeing,” he chuckled weakly, attempting to disperse the thick suffocating cloud of gloom above them, but Heri was in no state to respond, trembling like a leaf that barely hang on the thinnest thread. “ _This_ is your ambition, isn’t it? To live.”

“Yes,” the whisper was barely audible through the fabric of Tom’s robes, with Heri clinging to him as though he were a lifeline. “I know it’s stupid. I mean, the Black library is excessive, and I haven’t been the only one looking for solution, but no one’s managed to come up with anything worthwhile — probably because there’s simply nothing to be found. But I can’t help but _hope_ ,” _he_ spat the word like the foulest curse, “for some bloody miracle. I don’t want to die like this.”

“You won’t,” Tom avowed. Of course, some fucking miracle would be nice right about yesterday — or anytime during the next six years — but since no higher power, existent or otherwise, had ever seen fit to bestow upon him miraculous favor, he couldn’t afford to count on them starting now. He would just have to figure something out by himself. “Nothing, not even your magic will ever take you away from me, you hear me? We’ll think of something. Immortality, or resurrection, or reincarnation — surely all of those are possible in the magical world. We’ll merely have to approach the problem from a different angle. I bet your relatives lacked imagination in their frantic research, like most wizards do. I am different, so I’ll be able to help you.”

“Oh, the ego on you,” Heri scoffed, but _his_ voice sounded a bit lighter, and _his_ heart didn’t pound quite as fast in Tom’s ears. “Who do you think you are, the second coming of Merlin? You’re bloody twelve, for Circe’s sake!”

“You may refer to me as Tom,” he purred, not taking any offense, and buried his face in Heri’s luscious curls, inhaling deeply the ever-present scent of something frosty and fresh. “For now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why yes, I’ve decided that Heri being this superpowered necromancer who’s basically wiping the floor with anything without breaking a sweat is boring. Every power has its catch and all that.  
> Also, I’d like to empathize again that they are indeed 11 and 12 respectively at the moment, so any interactions contain nothing sexual, even if it might seem otherwise. However, Tom grew up in a nasty place and time, which allows him to draw some parallels and see the lurking shadows of past experiences where someone without those same experiences wouldn’t even think of any funny business.  
> Anywho, whaddaya think of this endless conversation? I promise there’s gonna be more action soon.


	9. Solace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dears. I hope all of you are well and having a good time. Consider this a late New Year present (as well as an apology, for I still cannot tell when I’ll be able to get back to semi-regular posting, if it’s going to happen at all).

Despite what he told Tom, Achernar wouldn’t actually call himself ambitious, not really. Perhaps it had always been like this, perhaps not, and he simply trained himself out of it at an early age. It mattered little in the end.

The fact was, when he came to Hogwarts and met Tom for the very first time, he’d already been firmly set in his beliefs. He believed that ambition was simply another word for hope, and hope only ever led to despair. Therefore, it was better not to delude himself into thinking that somehow, something could be done for him to get a chance to live his life at its fullest, to develop what could be considered an ambition. It was better not to hope.

He was already dealing with enough pain on a daily basis as it was, there was no need to add emotional one to the mix.

And honestly, it worked. Achernar turned out to be rather proficient at manipulating his own mindscape, to the point where he couldn’t even imagine what it would’ve been like to be less... jaded, apathetic to the world at large and anyone and anything in it.

And then he met Tom.

First as a nameless first-year on the train, clothed in cheap outdated robes that anyone from a half-decent family wouldn’t be caught dead in, yet sitting proud and regal, as though the image he presented meant nothing. He’d seemed interesting for that alone, never mind the most curious reaction Achernar’s magic had exhibited. If his control wasn’t as iron-clad, he would’ve been all over the other boy even back then.

As it was, though, he managed to produce some lame excuse and promptly fled the compartment, lest he did something he would’ve definitely regretted later.

Not that that brief moment of self-restrain helped him any in months to come. Tom was basically _everywhere_ — which was, of course, to be expected after they’d gotten sorted into the same House. Though, if Achernar were to be honest with himself, he would’ve been obsessing over the boy even if he became a Hufflepuff.  
  
And Tom was ambitious. Tom wanted so many things; power and recognition, and as much magic as he could master. He also wanted Achernar.

It was so blatant, so obvious, everyone and their mother must have noticed.

And of course, Achernar’s apathy never stood a chance in face of it all. He was fighting a losing battle, and he knew that, but he couldn’t not try, even though he didn’t exactly recognize his own reflection already after such meager a time.

Just what would be left of him if ( _when_ ) he completely gave in at long last?

Tom... Tom _erased_ him, bit by bit, made him feel as something greater and lesser at the same time, and didn’t even realize it. Didn’t even begin to comprehend the extent of the power he already possessed.

Achernar would prefer to keep it that way for as long as possible, preferably forever.

The thestrals surrounding him suddenly shifted in clear agitation, and Achernar heaved a sigh, coming back out of his reverie like one does whilst breaking the surface of the water after a deep dive, slightly disoriented but also relieved to be removed from the depths of his thoughts. Not that he appreciated some poor fool’s company, of course — after all, he chose to retreat to the Forbidden Forest for a reason. It was a sanctuary, the only place where he could be left alone, with various beasts, ambient magic and all-encompassing quiet for company. The only place where he could think independently, not swayed by the allure of Tom’s magic or brilliance.

A twig snapped just shy of the clearing he was in, and Achernar tried not to snarl too obviously in frustration.

“Ah, there you are,” Tom smiled in satisfaction, making Achernar wish to punch this expression off his smug face like a lowly muggle, all sense of decorum be damned. How the other Slytherin managed to find him here of all places he would never know, but at least it wasn’t a Professor. He was in no state to deal with Headmaster Dippet — or Merlin forbid, his failure of a Deputy — at the moment.

“Riddle,” Achernar drawled in acknowledgment, dragging out each syllable like he tended to every time his friend displeased him — which wasn’t exactly hard to fake after the stunt Tom had pulled off a few hours back. Of course, nothing short of some very ingenious Dark Arts (mind magic in particular) could possibly deter Tom Riddle from something he’d set his sights on, least of all someone’s scorn, and the insufferable fool naturally ignored the warning glint in Achernar’s eyes and went on.

“Are these thestrals?” He inquired curiously. “However did you manage to attract them?”

“I’ll have you know, I’m a very attractive person,” Achernar retorted snidely, taking small pleasure in the minuscule annoyed twitch of Tom’s left eye. Every instance of breaking through his _soulmate_ ’s impeccable self-control was to be celebrated, every advantage further exploited. “Why do you see them?”

“I might just tell you... if you get up and return to the warmth of Hogwarts this instance. You may catch a cold. Honestly, it’s a bloody miracle you’ve managed to survive this long with this attitude of yours.”

“What are you, a muggle?” Achernar scoffed irritably. “Warming charms do exist, you know.”

“Oh, you mean the ones you aren’t using at the moment?” Tom sneered. Sweet Circe! It wasn’t as though Achernar would drop dead any minute now, but apparently Tom thought he was about to and wouldn’t stop nagging at him about this and that ever since that fateful discussion almost two months ago.

Achernar hadn’t stopped regretting that decision for about the same amount of time.

“Gods above! It’s March, not January!” He finally snapped, but didn’t protest the warming charm engulfing his body in a caress of Tom’s delicious Dark magic. The bloody git sure knew how to manipulate him through his unnaturally deep perceptiveness.

Not that he would’ve been half as interesting without this uncanny ability to pick up on the smallest of clues, but still.

“I’m not cold,” Achernar murmured, and it sounded petulant even to his own ears, but it also didn’t sound as if he was on the verge of hypothermia (he’d had good acting practice with his overbearing relatives), so he counted this as a win even if he didn’t put up any fight when Tom forcibly dragged him towards Hogwarts’ gates.

 _Danger_ , his mind intoned — somewhere between a whisper and a scream. He silently agreed.

Dumbledore used to spare him no more than a cursory glance several times a day — more than any other student (barring Tom and select few, mostly upper years from prominent Dark families or outspoken mudbloods’ adversaries), but still not by much. It had changed seemingly overnight, as though the git had somehow gotten the intel on Achernar and Tom’s shifted dynamics, and it was apparently a grievous transgression that warranted extra attention, which wasn’t particularly well received by Achernar’s paranoia.

Honestly, just what was that man’s problem with Tom? And weren’t friends supposed to share things like that?

“Tom,” he started, deciding it was as good a time as any to once again attempt to wriggle some answers out of his secretive prat of a friend, but never got to finish the sentence.

“My boys,” boomed Dumbledore in his trademark gratingly paternal voice (Achernar silently cursed himself for jinxing them both by thinking on this matter) and smiled cordially. Ripping the fucker’s tongue out just to do the world a favor seemed like a nice idea, but he refrained. Best not to be openly hostile to the Light Lord in all but name.

Though honestly, had the man been waiting on them or something? Didn’t he have better things to do — like his actual business, for instance?

“Professor Dumbledore,” Tom responded with equally sincere smile of his own.

“What were you two doing out in the open?” Gods above, he couldn’t have sounded more suspicious if he tried. Achernar abruptly decided that he’d had enough.

“Not breaking curfew, _obviously_ ,” he drawled, not bothering to hide his disdain towards the bloody bigot. After all, as a member of Noble and Most Ancient House of Black he had more leeway with such behavior than Tom. “ _Professor_ ,” he added as an afterthought, deliberately poorly concealed false politeness lacing his voice. “And you? Not snooping around stalking unsuspecting kids, I dare hope?”

Mordred, he never would’ve gone out of his way to antagonize someone before meeting Tom. It was both exhilarating and terrifying, _freeing_ in a way that he’d never thought possible for himself. Most of the time he felt as though he was riding on the effects of some less than legal potions of certain kind, and worst of all, he’d caught himself more than once thinking that he never wanted to come down.

He didn’t want to get away from Tom anymore, perhaps never truly had. He wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he did manage to run, or if some external force was to intervene and separate them.

He’d likely explode in the overflow of magic and take dozens, _hundreds_ of people with him, like a far more deadlier version of that muggle thing — domb, bomb, was it? — that’s rumored to have been recently developed by some war-mongering lunatics.

Tom’s gentle hand landed on the small of his back, and Achernar abruptly came to his senses and realized that he was standing here in the hallway, engaged in a staring contest with Albus bloody Dumbledore, the best legillimens of the century.

Stupid, stupid, stupid! Just how much had the enemy seen? Was it even possible for someone to scratch more than surface thoughts of a necromancer?

 _Untrained necromancer, and a child of eleven at that, pitted against one of the most powerful wizards alive_ , some wretched part of his brain, probably that pesky thing known as common sense, helpfully supplied.

But he would not be cowed so easily. He was a Black, and Blacks never backed down from anything (even if it killed them).

Nevertheless, he refused to shy away from the Mordred’s spawn’s gaze, despite knowing full well what he was up to. What more harm could it possibly do anyway? If Dumbledore wanted to find something out, he already had.

And it wasn’t as if he would be able to utilize the knowledge he’d come by through performing an illegal spell on a minor without their consent.

Though now that the git knew whatever it was that clouded his eyes with unpleasant realization, he might become even more inclined to watch Achernar like a hawk, but that was something to freak out about on another day. At the moment he was too busy berating himself for his reckless and irrational behavior to even begin to contemplate the consequences of his foolishness.

And just as any other Black stuck in the middle of a violent confrontation, be it literal or figurative, especially if the confrontation in question was said Black’s fault in the first place (which, frankly, it tended to be more often than not), he only raised his head even higher and stepped forward, showing that he was afraid of nothing. His pride wouldn’t have allowed for anything else.

He opened his mouth just to fill in the silence that’d stretched uncomfortably seemingly without anyone’s notice, but Tom, of course, timely swiped in before he could abase himself any further, redirecting Dumbledore’s attention back to his person.

“If that’s all, Professor,” he offered pleasantly, masking the underlying tension almost flawlessly, “we’d better get going. Heri and I wouldn’t want to break the curfew and risk deduction of points, after all.”

The douchebag nodded wordlessly, obviously still reeling from whatever it was he’d gleaned during his quick unlawful peak into Achernar’s mind, and stepped aside, allowing his friend to guide him down the hallways towards relative safety, unperturbed.

It took Achernar longer than he would’ve liked to notice that he was still shaking from the unpleasant experience, and his erratic heartbeat wasn’t at all subsiding — if anything, it was actually climbing up to new heights.

**HPLVHPLVHPLV**

“What is it?” Tom asked _again_. Albeit now they were finally in his bedroom (since his friend was in no state to dismantle the wards on _his_ own), which robbed Heri of any legitimate excuse to put off explaining what got _him_ so shaken, besides the obvious, of course.

Heri sighed with the air of someone who was being forced to do the very last thing they wanted, but at least _he_ wasn’t trembling like a leaf anymore. “Do you know what Legillimency is?” _He_ asked rhetorically, and went on before Tom even opened his mouth to answer (in negative). “It’s one of the more basic aspects of what is known as Mind Arts, along with Occlumency. The former encompasses the ways in which one might enter another’s mind and process, alter or damage their memories, while the latter is dedicated to countering such invasions, as well as compartmentalizing the practitioner’s mindscape and everything that lays therein. There are many more uses for both, not to mention the vast expanse of other Mind Arts, but that’s all you need to understand for the purpose of this conversation.”

Tom frowned slightly, but he was mature enough to not take offense at Heri’s words. Besides, he could always learn all there was to learn about any subject on his own in case his soulmate refused to educate him further for whatever reason. He had other things to concentrate on at the moment, like...

“Wait a minute!” He exclaimed, suddenly hit by an unpleasant (but exceedingly possible) conclusion. “Are you saying that the bastard _read your mind_? Is it something that can actually be done by him or whomever else as they please?”

“Under normal circumstances, no,” Heri assured, though it hardly made Tom feel any better. “But it’s Albus Dumbledore we’re talking about. Everyone knows he’s the best Legillimens there is, though no one’s ever tried to press charges, probably because such subtle magical influence is nigh impossible to trace. It’s a particularly complicated discipline, too, that requires a certain amount of talent and finesse, so it’s not like there’re many of those who are capable of it around. The easiest way to stop a Legillimens from peaking into your mind is to avoid direct eye contact with them — which I failed spectacularly at, what with staring him down and all. He had ample opportunity to glimpse whatever he wanted while I was making a fool of myself. He might know that I’m a necromancer now.”

“But you told me he had to know something already, long before this incident,” Tom protested weakly.

“ _Something_ , yes,” Heri nodded emphatically. “He would’ve been stupid if he didn’t suspect what I am, but suspecting and knowing for sure are entirely different things, for someone like him at least.”

“You have a point there,” Tom had to admit. “So... what now? What does his newfound awareness mean for you — for us?”

“Well, in ideal world he would just contend himself with the knowledge that I likely wouldn’t make it to adulthood, but we are not living in that world. I honestly don’t know, but I don’t think he’s going to just let me wander around unperturbed, getting up to whatever nefarious deeds I please, troubled only by my impending expiration date. Self-righteous meddling fools such as our dear Paragon of Light never leave dark things be. Sooner or later, he’ll make his move.”

“If it doesn’t sound just wonderful,” Tom scoffed in frustration. There wasn’t anything they could reasonably do, and it unsettled ( _terrified_ ) him more than he dared to admit.

“Relax, will you?” Heri offered, now a complete one-eighty from the way he’d been but a few moments before. “It’s not as if he’s going to murder me in the middle of the Great Hall — or at all, actually, since he seems to have issues with going through with the deed. He also cannot just tell anyone that he’s used Legillimency on me, because it’s illegal and detrimental to his image, and I don’t particularly see him coming up with a believable alternative explanation for how he could’ve possibly come by such sensitive knowledge.”

“Perhaps,” Tom conceded, because of course he’d already thought all of that and more. But that wasn’t what made him feel like a caged animal, and he told his companion as much.

“Then...” Heri began, but stopped abruptly, _his_ baffled gaze lighting up with realization. “Merlin, of course! I cannot believe it hasn’t occurred to me. Do you want me to tutor you in the early stages of Occlumency training? I’m afraid I’m unable to lend any books at the moment, but I’ll send a few over once summer holidays begin. It’s quite unfortunate that Hogwarts library have none — it would’ve sped things along considerably.”

“Studying Occlumency is regulated, too?” Tom asked, surprised. “Why? It doesn’t sound like it can be harmful to anyone other than practitioner themselves.”

“As if that’s the only criteria behind each and every ridiculous ban the governments have ever placed upon certain magicks,” Heri snorted derisively. “My best bet is that knowing about the existence of Occlumency would naturally lead to conclusion that there must exist an opposite art-“

“Wait,” Tom interrupted. “You mean that every power has its counter power? Is this another one of those unspoken postulates everyone’s just agreed upon?”

“That’s the general consensus, yes. But we digress. Would you like my assistance or not?”

“‘Of course,” Tom agreed without hesitation. “I wouldn’t trust anyone else, not with this.”

“Oh,” Heri whispered softly, as humbled as _he_ usually was after Tom’s declarations, then cleared _his_ throat. “In that case, I want you to trust me with something else, too. Back in the Forbidden Forest you promised me a story, did you not?”

“I did,” Tom sighed, already regretting his decision, but unable to back off now.

“And you always keep your promises,” Heri smiled and flopped down on Tom’s bed, patting the mattress beside himself. And Tom, of course, was never one to turn down such an invitation from the only person that mattered.

It didn’t take them long to make themselves comfortable — unsurprisingly, since it was far from the first time when they curled together on a single bed. Unfortunately, it also meant that Tom couldn’t delay the uncomfortable topic any longer.

He took a deep calming breath, slipped his fingers into Heri’s hair — a habit he had no intention to get rid of — and began as succinctly as possible; “I told you I’m used to having a room to myself, and it’s true, but it hasn’t always been like this. There was that muggle boy, completely pathetic, really, and also mentally retarded, for he had trouble with the simplest of things and didn’t look at me with fear or derision. We shared a room for a few years — perhaps the matron sought to isolate both freaks together,” he paused, suddenly jolted out of his memory lane by five spikes of pain in his right thigh. Heri had truly sharp nails. “Anyway, the boy died when I was about to turn eight. I mean, back there hunger, illness, colds, and a certain percentage of deaths were the norm, but I’d never seen it happening right in front of my eyes before that winter. That year there was a particularly strong infection, and many children contracted it. I broke through the fever and got better, the muggle didn’t.”

He didn’t intend to say more, to relive the horror of lying down in bed and coughing out blood while adults were carrying out the lifeless corpse of his former roommate, with his dead eyes that seemed to bore right into Tom the whole time; or how other kids and even adults were inclined to believe that God had punished them for giving shelter to Devil’s spawn. But somehow the words flowed, unbidden, from his frozen mouth, and Heri laid there, silent and attentive, with such an unholy wrath in his glowing emeralds that Tom was certain Mrs. Cole would burn him at stake if she ever were to lay her eyes upon him.

Tom vowed he would burn her first, together with the whole filthy orphanage, before he allowed that to happen. Achernar, _his Heri_ , would live, even if meant piling up corpses in their wake.


End file.
